Two Ice Cold Rootbeers
by The Brilliant Fool
Summary: Last Chapter, and Author's note. Anne Elliot has spent the last five years in regret. When Ahmir Wentworth comes back into her life, it's time for some major reevaluation. Complete, but please review.
1. The Ugliest Profession in the World

If you had told me three years ago that my family would spend itself into the ground, I wouldn't have been surprised. I wouldn't have been surprised, frankly, if you had told me that fourteen years ago, when I was ten, an age which most people tend to consider too young to understand the way money works.

I am not like my family. My father, who has a strong dislike of anything that isn't attractive, enjoys the things he buys with money, but has a general aversion to bills, banks, checkbooks, or offices. He was born wealthy, and, unless some miracle happens in the very near future, he will die poor.

My mother is already dead, having died the same year I began to understand the kind of people my family really were. I have two sisters, one older, and one younger. The older one still lives at home with our father and, now, me. She hates nicknames, and refuses to be called Liz or Liza or Eliza or Beth. She is Elizabeth Elliot. She likes the alliteration. My younger sister married out of high school (or rather prep school), and has hunkered down in the Berkshires with an independently wealthy man of her own. She doesn't have to worry about our future, and I am strongly convinced that she doesn't.

I sound bitter. I know it, and I wish I could be perky, or amusingly sarcastic, or sardonic. I wish I could be better entertainment for you and for my family, who don't like listening to me speak either. But at the moment, I am twenty-four, lonely, and staring at the dismal account book our over-priced accountant produced for us not half an hour ago. The book itself is pretty, but since my father thinks that numbers must have been invented by the loneliest, most friendless, and therefore ugliest, human being in the world, he won't look at them.

I look up at Rochelle, my mother's best friend, who has been filing her nails quietly across the table, giving me time to get over my mild cardiac arrest. "There's nothing here."

Her head snaps up from her immaculate cuticles. "Hmm?"

"There's nothing here, Rochelle. They've spent everything. The second mortgage, my scholarship from the town, my paychecks, dad's trust fund, mom's inheritance, her life insurance, _everything_. It's all gone. They're living off credit cards now." I hunt down the column of EXPENSES, which the accountant had written in what I thought was an extremely smug all capital letters. "Elizabeth is still spending hundreds of dollars on clothes, dad is still getting his hair styled at that ridiculously expensive salon, and having those hair transplant treatments so he won't go bald, they still insist on eating at expensive restaurants…" I rub my face in my hands for a second, then return to the book, mesmerized by the badness. "We're spending more than we make, no wait, sorry, we're spending more than _I _make, and we're not stopping, and we massive credit card debt, and they'll never listen to me, and they'll just keep on doing it, and what am I supposed to do?" I look at my friend desperately, at her well-groomed hair, her perfect complexion, her well-dressed, lean figure. She would remind me of a Barbie doll if Barbies had even a smidgeon of elegance. She regards me for a second, then puts her nail file down all together. This is important, and even my cool and collected godmother can see it.

"You're going to get through it, darling, like you always have done. Your mother led this family through so much trouble so quietly that they didn't even know what was happening. Now you have the chance to do the same, and I know you will,"

"But—"

"Just write up a proposal for how they should live from now on. Tell them where, their budgets, any major changes they have to make, and so on. You can do this, Anne, I know you can." She regards me closely, a small, secretive, all-knowing smile dancing around the corners of her mouth, "You have so much of your mother in you, you know. There are times when I think you conceived yourself, because you're definitely not like your father in any way. She was strong, sweetheart. So can you be." She smiles at me again, this time with the air of having just given me the greatest present I could ever ask for, and goes back to filing her nails with a kind of extreme diligence.

I look down at the ledger book silently, thinking of all the things I could have said in protest. _My mother had severe stress issues. She had a heart attack because of them. Am I supposed to die for this family, too? And besides, doesn't that whole approach of taking on all the family problems just let them get away scotch free? How are they ever going to change now?_ But in my long experience with Rochelle, I have never been able to get her to seriously roll her sleeves up and attack a problem. Just like my father and my sister, she left it up to me to solve. But beggars can't be choosers, I think to myself sternly, at least she listens to your problems and acknowledges them.

I get up from the table and head for the bathroom, switching on the light to reveal the expensive rare black marble, the wall sconces, the perfectly feng shui positioning of the toilet and the bathtub, the circular mirror that cost over two thousand dollars. Before, all of this had seemed wasteful. Now it just seemed foolish. Who needed a ten thousand dollar bathroom when you could barely afford to feed everyone?

I turn on the water faucet—_this is adding to your water bill, Anne_—and splash cold water on my face to cool down. I quickly shut the tap off and look at myself in the mirror. My dark circles have grown larger, I notice. It's to be expected, considering I didn't sleep at all last night. I prod my protruding cheekbone, sighing again in frustration at my appearance. I need to gain weight badly.

I shut the light off, now disgusted with my appearance. I go back to the desk, and Rochelle, and the books, and begin to feverishly write out a plan for the rest of our lives.

"_Move?_ What d'you mean, _move?_" my father shouts. Surrounded as he is by his family, his personal assistant, his personal assisstant's daughter, and Rochelle, he can't bring himself to sit down and discuss things rationally. Now that he has an audience, he has to play to it.

"We can't afford to live here anymore, Dad," I say, trying again to hand the papers to him, to show him the work I've done. He doesn't even acknowledge their existence, instead he huffs to the window.

"But what would it look like, a family like our moving out of the best neighborhood in the country? What would that say to everyone?"

"That we're on the verge of being bankrupt and we don't want to die of starvation? These people can handle the truth at least once in their lives. Besides, they already know, anyway—"

"I do not want to sell this house here so that we can go and live in some disgusting little flat of the kind you're used to, Anne. I won't allow it! How will your sister live, without her friends around her?" I look at Elizabeth, who is slowly and methodically eating her way through a box of chocolates, doing her best to look both thoughtful and rapturous at the same time.

"Dad, I know you don't _want _to leave. I understand that. But we don't exactly have a choice if you want to keep on eating. My paychecks aren't enough to cover food _and _credit cards _and _water bills _and _electrical _and _oil. I don't make the kind of money that can support a house of this size. So you need—_we­ _need to change our lifestyles a little bit. Just…listen to my ideas, all right? Just listen, okay?"

"Walter, Anne has never asked for a thing from you before," says Rochelle, having fixed my father with her steely, calculating gaze. "Now she is trying to help you, at least listen to what she has to say."

My father looks from her to me, then sits regally in the chair behind him, and nods for me to continue.

"Okay," I start, looking down at my papers and trying to collect my thoughts, "the first thing we need to do is move. That doesn't mean," I say, cutting my father off before he could protest, "that we're going to sell this house. We're going to rent it out to people. The value of this house has tripled since we bought it thirty years ago, which means a reasonable renting price will have gone up, too. That will help pay off the mortgage on the house in case we ever _do _want to sell it again, and will also give us a steady income to pay off other bills like credit cards. Like you said, this is a hugely desirable location, right on the water, right in town. People would kill to own it, and kill to rent it, especially in the summer. Then you'd rake it in. Next, we have to cut back on our expenses. This means we have to sell the things we don't need anymore, like old clothes and furniture and shoes and appliances, and your BowFlex, Dad, that's gathering dust in the attic. We're keeping only what we need and _buying _only what we need. Elizabeth, I'll have to introduce you to the idea of bargain shopping and the like. Not everything we own can be designer anymore. It just can't."

"I hate this!" Elizabeth bursts out, flipping her chocolates on the floor, "how is it that _you _can tell us how we should be living? _You _don't do anything at all! You're barely even useful as a sister! Daddy, how can you let her tell you what to do?"

Rochelle's eyes flash, and she snaps, "Anne's been the backbone of this family ever since your mother died, Elizabeth. She's shown more patience today than I've ever seen anyone else possess. She works harder than you've ever had to in order to keep you two happy, and she's far more mature than you are at this moment, for all you're the eldest. Let her talk, because she's making very good points."

I look from Rochelle to Elizabeth uncertainly, to make sure they're really done, then I clear my throat and continue. " If we take the right steps, we can go without severely crippling our financial futures. We just have to curb some of our habits right now a little in order to make do. It won't be that hard, once we get the hang of it, I promise." I hand the papers to my father, thankful that I have copies in the desk in case he decides to destroy them in a noble huff.

"You should consider it," my father's assistant, Michael Clay says gently. His daughter, the twenty-something Hope, with her vacant smile and her Jimmy Choos, nods in agreement. I try to hide my dislike for her. I have noticed how much more invested in her appearance she's grown since she met my father. Hopefully I wasn't saving our money only to have her marry into it.

"Absolutely, Walter," Rochelle says, her voice now reassuring and calm. The maid scurries to clean up the chocolates Elizabeth dumped on the floor, and I nod to her in thanks. "You should listen to Anne. You know, that just today I heard that the Crofts have been looking for a home here for awhile. Adam Croft, the soccer coach? He and his wife would almost certainly take this house, and Lord knows they have the money."

I freeze at the sound of the name. Rochelle seems to have noticed, and stops her speech, but Elizabeth grabs it by the horns and charges. "Oooh, the Adam Croft! You know them, Daddy, his team won the World Cup at least three times! And I think his son-in-law was on the last team…what was his name? Waldren—Wellberg—W-something, I'm sure."

"Wentworth," I say quietly. Rochelle glances at me sharply, but doesn't say anything. I meet her gaze placidly, trying to prove that I have no regrets. I'm not fooled. Neither is she, I think.

"Wentworth, that's it. Anyway, Daddy, he's supposed to be the best soccer player in the world."

My father stretches out along his arm chair, and I settle myself back for another of his tirades. His lips purse into a nasty little smile, and he moves his hand lazily by the wrist as he says, "Ugh, athletes! There is nothing attractive about them whatsoever. First they sweat and smell and chase balls around for fun, then they get fat and lazy in the off-season, and expect everyone else to pick up the tab! And soccer players! Have you _seen _their thighs, Elizabeth? And their butts? _Huge_! Absolutely enormous, I'm telling you. Besides, they get old and injured before their time, and then what do you have? An impotent, fat ex-soccer player reduced to coaching children to get by. Disgraceful!"

"But Walter," Rochelle says in her most patient voice, "if he and his wife are willing to take the house, then you _will _let them rent it, won't you? They are very good people, and I know they'll take good care of the place. They have no kids, anyway, and a family without kids won't break any of the furniture. At least consider it, won't you?"

There is a long pause while my father considered. Then he nods, flipping through my papers. He glances up at me for the first time, and says, "Your sister Mary called. She wants you to go there and help with the house and everything. She's expecting you on Sunday." Then he returns to shuffling my papers.

I do my best not to look hurt or upset by his flippant use of my time, and by his apparent lack of need of me. I get up to leave the room, followed by Elizabeth's resentful stare, the Clays' impassive ones, and Rochelle's sympathetic gaze.

Nothing ever changes.


	2. You Know What

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it means so much to me. I'm not going to do huge author's notes in this story, but I wanted to let everyone know that this is slightly AU, something I don't usually do. I just didn't want to have to let places, actual real estate values, the fact that America doesn't have a good soccer team or a huge amount of people who follow said soccer team, to get in the way of the story. I just want to tell it. So when I say that certain areas are less expensive, or make up place names, it's not because I'm an idiot, I'm just creating a work of fiction based in very little geographical and societal reality.

Cheers,

Dinah

* * *

Rochelle finds me lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Two hours have passed since I left the living room, enough time for Mr. Clay to hash things out for the future. I have become an expert in tuning out the arguments or the sounds of parties going on in this house, so I hardly notice when Rochelle knocks on my door. It is only when she enters that I in any way register her presence.

"He was too harsh with you, Anne," she says, coming to sit next to me on the bed. I continue to look up at the ceiling. I don't want to have yet another talk about how much my father actually loves me, but can't show it. After twenty-two years, I know the truth. "He's under an extreme amount of stress right now, and I'm sure he'll thank you for your hard work at the end."

I address my roof, "You don't have to make excuses for him, Rochelle. My mother already did that enough for both of you." I'm in a bitter mood, and I don't feel like hiding my thoughts. She can just deal with them or leave. She's the one person I treat like that. No one else gets that kind of honesty. Not since—

"I know you're angry, Anne Elliot, but do _not_ take it out on me. I've done nothing to you except try to steer you in the right direction, and help you deal with your father and sisters, and lend you money when you needed it—"

"—Rochelle—"

"—Not that I'm asking for it back, mind. _I _barely even notice it's gone. But my point is, don't get angry at me for trying to help this situation you have going on here, all right? I'm the only one who understands who doesn't have to worry about getting fired if she makes the Great Walter Elliot angry." There is a pause as she looks at me, and I trace the cracks in my ceiling with my eyes. Then she says, "Mr. Clay has them looking at real estate in Bath."

An involuntary shudder runs through me. "Super."

"I know how much you hate it there, but I think you have to stop associating it with your mother. You just have to take it as a place, not _the _place where—where she—you know." I nod, not trusting myself to say more. I miss my mother now so much that I can feel a physical pain somewhere in my abdomen.

"I hate this break-up of your family. You know that you are the only friends I have here now. And now you're leaving, too. I don't think I'll be able to come here again, not even to greet the new tenants. Not until you come back to live here with a fantastic, rich, beautiful husband and your twenty babies." I don't react externally. Internally, though, it feels like all my organs have shrunk back in pain. She, of all people, should know me better than that.

"Anne, darling," she says, this time with a bit of diffidence in her voice, something strange and new for me, "you need to take better care of yourself." I turn my head to look at her face, and she meets my gaze and says, "I've never seen you so unhappy in my entire life. And I know that you've never been very happy since You-Know-What happened…and I know that it was a huge disappointment to you, the way things worked out, but I think you need to pull yourself together, move on with your life. It _has _been five years, after all, and I think that you should—"

"I really don't want to talk about this, Rochelle—"

"—try to get back to where you were before. It would be best for you, you know. You need to eat more, you look like a stick, sweetie—"

"—Thanks, and I know I need to gain weight, but please, hear me out—"

"—And I think this time away from your father and Elizabeth might do you a world of good." She concluds. I wait, making sure she is finished, before I move on, speaking slowly and clearly.

"Rochelle. I appreciate your concern, and believe me, I share your opinions on a lot. And don't think that I blame you for…for what happened, because I don't. But now, after everything, I'm starting to realize…I'm understanding that I shouldn't have cared what my father thought, that I should have done what _I _wanted to, because—because—"

"Anne, you were nineteen. And what was he, twenty? He was a soccer player _trying _to get on the National Team, on _any _team, for that matter. He didn't have a bright-looking future, he didn't have many prospects, and he didn't seem like the kind of man your father would have let you see anyway. You were too young for that kind of relationship. You made the right decision, I promise you."

I want to yell at her, to tell her that there was no gauge on how old a person has to be before she is old enough to fall in love with someone. I want to tell her that the right thing to have done would have been to do what I thought was right, not what Dad wanted. I want to tell how much I still love him, even now.

But I don't. Instead, I press my lips together tighter and close my eyes, turning my face skyward again. After a bit, Rochelle pats my leg and quietly gets up to leave, and I sink slowly into troubled, lonely sleep.

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Ahmir Wentworth is the greatest soccer player in the world. The best since Zinedine Zidane. Since Thierry Henry. Still young, a solid twenty-five, he has a good ten years before retirement. He is beautiful, he is rich, he is eligible.

In other words, he is the kind of man Rochelle would approve of.

If she didn't already disapprove of him, that is. It was too bad I had met him at nineteen, because if we were to meet now, nothing would stand in our way.

But I'd sufficiently screwed that up now. My only comfort had been that I would never see him again. But now, with his sister and his coach living in my house, there is very little chance that I will be able to avoid him indefinitely.

My eyes open slowly, looking at the same ceiling I had been intent on a few hours before. My clock says two-twenty AM. I roll out of bed, knowing that I'll never be able go back to sleep now. I never can sleep when I think of him.

I pad downstairs, no longer careful to be quiet. My family sleeps so soundly, a tap-dancing, belting Broadway chorus would never be able to stir them. The thought makes my mouth quirk a bit in my newly-acquired version of a smile.

I step up into one of the two gigantic armchairs in the den. I settle down into the chair with my legs pressed up against my chest and my feet flat on the seat. I run my finger up the left arm lightly, thinking that they are the only things I'll miss when I leave. Funny, I think, again with the odd mouth quirk, that was what I thought when I left for college when I was eighteen.

I switch the television on, flipping through infomercials and bad made-for-TV movies, most of which involve teenage pregnancy or last-minute altar confessions of love. My finger pauses as a picture flashes up on one of the many sports channels my father pays for but never watches. I look hungrily at him, at his dark skin, his closely-shaved head, his wide, bright smile, his brutally athletic physique. I sound like a rag mag, like one of the millions of gossip columns.

I am not over him, I tell myself again. It's nothing new. I tell myself this everyday, sometimes multiple times, when I see his picture, when I watch a game on stolen time. I thought I'd never see him again? I see him everyday. _That _was the only comfort I had.

The commentator goes on and on about Ahmir's prowess, on his teamwork, on his class. He pushes him as the greatest player in the history of the world. As is the fashion of early morning/late night programming, multiple other men in suits jump in to support or refute his suggestions. Ahmir's picture disappears from the screen and I flip the channel impatiently. I finally settle the first movie channel I find, playing something truly melodramatic and badly shot. I get up from my seat, accompanied by the sound of the alcoholic ex-wife begging for forgiveness from her grieving husband, and roam around the first floor of the house. The house that is not my house. I make a note of everything that Elizabeth will want, what my father will want, what I would want. Mine is the smallest of the three. I don't want to take this place with me. I make my way to the basement closet, where a huge collection of cardboard boxes waits. I start bringing them up, labeling them, filling them. I figure that I can't get an early enough start.

By eight o'clock, I have finished boxing the first floor, the CD's and DVD's in alphabetical order, the books by author, the particularly expensive articles that serve no use but to show off our wealth. Those boxes I label "SELL." I get up from the floor, capping my magic marker and stretching, cracking a few bones in my back and in my neck. I reach to scratch my ribcage, feeling with dismay the individual ribs underneath the skin.

You're not over him, I tell myself again. You're not over him, and you don't take care of yourself, and you're miserable. I hope you're happy with that. I make my way to the kitchen to eat a big breakfast for once, when Elizabeth steps into my path.

"Anne, you have to talk to the gardener _now_. He wants something and I have _no _idea what he's saying. If these people just learned English, we wouldn't be having this problem." I want to snap at her for her stupidity. Instead, I say, "Can it wait? I was going to have some—"

"No, it can't wait! He's after something, and if we don't get to the bottom of it, we're going to have a disgruntled servant on our hands, and then he's bound to do something bad to us or the Crofts! You know how it is." She folds her arms, and I see she'll scream at me until I do something.

Breakfast will have to wait. I step outside to talk to Jayron, when Elizabeth calls out, "Anne, we're out of milk and bread. Can you go get some when you're done?"


	3. Free the Three

The car has been turned off for ten minutes and I still haven't gotten out. I sit in the front seat, clutching the wheel nervously, gazing at the house in front of me in apprehension. I don't want to be here at all.

As I always do when I visit Mary, I notice how beautiful the Berkshires are. The hills sprout on either side of the road, covered thickly in trees, shading the car and the people and the countryside in dappled light. In spring and summer, everything is a rich, emerald green, and in autumn, the landscape is lit with brilliance by the fall foliage. I have never been here in the winter, and if it wasn't for Mary, I would want to see what it's like.

Not now, though. I sigh heavily, figuring that discovery is inevitable. I climb out of the car, taking my little duffel of clothes out of the backseat window and slinging it over my shoulder. I didn't need much from my father's house.

I raise my hand to knock on the crisply painted white door, but before I can, it flies open, and Mary's small, dramatic, long-suffering face greets me.

"What took you so long? I was seriously freaking out, Anne," she doesn't stop to let me explain, but turns around and walks away, leaving the door open for me to walk in through.

My sisters are the epitome of WASP beauty, and at this moment Mary is excelling in the wardrobe category. Her extra-small-sized polo fits her small breasts and waist perfectly, and her khakis sit at exactly her belly button. Her hair is the same medium brown at mine, but shinier, and layered and pulled back in a pony tail. I get the feeling I should be self-conscious standing in front of her with a sweatshirt and ratty jeans, my hair hanging down mid-back. But I don't compare myself with Mary anymore. There's no reason to, considering we have nothing in common and never could.

"Just leave your bags there," she says casually, waving a lazy hand at the foot of the wide staircase. "Eve will take it up for you."

I don't remind her that her maid's name is Yvonne. I don't think that would go over well on my first day. Instead, I follow her into the kitchen.

"Ugh, it is _so_ good that you came now," she says, changing tack entirely. She coughs melodramatically into her fists and sighs like she just hacked up a lung, pulling a mug of tea close to her chest. "I'm soooo sick right now," she draws the word out, giving it as much weight as she can, "and I can't handle all the housework _and _Charles's soirees _and _be sick _and _care of Charlie. It's too much. I just wish you could have come a little sooner, that's all," she finishes, looking at me innocently and yet accusatorily.

My mouth quirks up a bit at her antics, and I lean against the enormous marble island in the middle of her kitchen. "This may come as a shock, Mary darling, but I did have a lot to do before I came."

"What can you _possibly _have had to do?" she said, apparently amazed that I did anything at all. I thought of all the cataloguing, all the organizing, all the avoiding the Crofts, all the packing, and the auctioning, the selling, the buying, the shipping, the moving.

"A lot, actually," I say, knowing she wouldn't believe me even if I told her. She barely bats an eyelash. She just says, "You didn't ask me how the gala went last night."

I blink back, surprised at the question. "I thought you didn't go. Aren't you sick?" For a moment, she seems lost for words, but she says, "Well, no. I was fine yesterday, but then today rolls along and I'm absolutely disgustingly ill."

I want to ask her about her alcohol intake, but I don't. I want to ask if she caused a scene like she usually does, but I don't. Instead, I say, "Is Charlie here?"

She waves a hand upward to the second story. "He's in his room playing. He has so much energy, I can't keep up. He'll be happy to see you, though." I almost wince at this statement, which generally sounds like an accusation from her. Nothing in her tone is resentful right now, but I'm grateful to get away from the kitchen and climb the plush stairs to Charlie's room, which is the last one down the hall. I knock on the door and a voice mumbles, "Go away, I'm busy."

I smile a bit. Charlie is three years old and mischievous. Anything he's busy at could end in a massive explosion of some kind or other.

"Well, I'll go away if you want me to, hon, but then I wouldn't get to see you. That'd make me cry. Do you _want _to make me cry?" There is a gasp, and mass scuffling behind the door, which is flung open suddenly, as a very small, very hard body flings itself at my chest.

"Anne! Anne! Anne!" he squeaks, now wrapping his arms around my legs and tugging me from side to side, rocking me. I look at the top of his head fondly as I hug him back. He looks like a child version of his father, with the same turned up nose and boyish features. On him, of course, they don't look as striking, since he's three. But soon, I guess, he'll have his father's height, a full six-foot-two, as well. I've always thought Charles's mix of features were a little on the ironic side.

"How's it going, buddy?" I say, my mouth quirking up of its own accord. He looks up at me, grinning his gap-toothed grin that will, in ten years, be encompassed by braces, and says, "_Awesome_! I just caught, like, free frogs, and they're gonna be my _pets_!" his speech impediment is endearing, and I almost chuckle at it, but the fear of what Mary will say when she sees three amphibians in her son and heir's bedroom stops me.

"Don't you think you should ask Mummy first?" He screws up his face in distaste, as if I had just suggested he eat his broccoli.

"Noooo, Anne! She won't let me have them! And I waaaaaaaaaant them!" He squeezes me tighter, pulling me up on my tiptoes. He's obviously learned his wheedling from Mary. I struggle to retain my balance and decide to drop the whole subject for now. Charlie doesn't pay attention to any new scheme for longer than two days. Hopefully it will be forgotten by tomorrow when he realizes how much work he has to do to keep the frogs.

The front door slams, and a big voice booms, "Look who's home!" Charlie squeals and drops his death grip on my lower body and races downstairs, this time yelling "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

I move to the top of the staircase, and watch as Charles picks his son up with no effort. Charles takes up the whole entrance, and is built like Gaston from _Beauty and the Beast_, a stature he hides in big, expensive suits and exorbitant attachés. In his arms, Charlie looks like a toy, a teddy bear. Charles is laughing heartily and ruffling his son's hair when he sees me coming down the stairs. I can see his eyes take in my appearance, my straggly hair, my old clothes, my bad shoes, and for the first time in my life, I see pity steal its way into his gaze. It's embarrassing, and I speak to cover up my humiliation. "Hello, Charles," which is my customary awkward greeting for him.

"Anne," he replies civilly, "how are you?"

I am about to answer with some sort of well-meaning lie when Mary speaks behind me. "Aren't you forgetting someone?" Her voice is pitched higher, as it generally is when she speaks to Charles, but I can feel the bite in it. She doesn't like me to be anywhere him. Not like there's any danger, anyway. I have never been interested in Charles in my life, not when …

"Ah, my beautiful wife, how could I forget you?" he boomed, striding to her and kissing her genially on the cheek. She smiles smugly and tilts her body into his. I feel a twang of envy, just for a moment, as I watch them. Not for Charles, but for this comfortable, stable, happy family life they have together. I want it for myself, but looking at them I know that's not possible.

"Come on, honey, I'll make you a cup of coffee," says Mary flirtatiously, stepping backwards into the kitchen. I know she's doing this for my benefit. Normally, she doesn't touch anything in the kitchen if she can help it.

I'm villianizing her, I realize. She's not all that bad, and definitely not as destructive as the combined powers of Elizabeth and my father. I shouldn't be so hard on her, since she is giving me the chance to leave home and escape for a bit. I resolve to stop victimizing myself and just deal. Stop being miserable. Presto-chango.

Charles smiles at his wife before turning to me and conspiratorially whispering, "Mother, Hen, and Lou want to see you. They're all home now, if you're available."

"Good. Charlie's got three frogs in his room." I give in return, and step out of the house to the sound of Charles's groan of apprehension.

Charles's family lives right next door, which in Berkshire standards means down one long driveway and up another. In true WASP fashion, Charles calls his parents "Mother" and "Daddy," and three years ago had moved his wife into the four million dollar house his parents had bought him as a wedding present. Mary, in her way, generally feels repressed by the proximity, and always tries to avoid contact as much as possible. Maybe she feels…stop that, you! Enough! I reprimand myself again, contemplating giving myself a slap on the wrist. I'm getting bitter in my old age now, I suppose.

The Musgrove family had long ago told me that I didn't need to knock on their door. Even now, years after they had bestowed this honor on me, I can't get used to the feeling of opening up a door this huge and walking in as if it was my own house. But I do, or Mrs. Musgrove will reprimand me about it for hours, or days, or weeks.

"Hello?" I call, over the sound of two girls singing along badly to Ewen McGregor and Nicole Kidman.

"Anne!" the voices shriek from the kitchen, and, much like Charlie, they slide over to me and throw their arms around me. Louisa, just twenty, is glowing and audacious, and her curly yellow hair sprays into my face as she flings herself at me. Henrietta, or Hen, is younger, more cautious, quieter, and takes care to straighten her hair every day. Now, however, she is barraging me with questions.

"What took you so long?"

"Was Mary flipping out at you?"

"Did you see Charlie?"

"Was your dad being a bastard again?"

"Did you know Charlie has some illicit material in his room?"

"How long are you staying?"

"Jesus you're thin!" says Lousia, invading my personal bubble and lifting my sweatshirt hem to poke at my stomach.

"Lou! That's a little rude," says Hen in disapproval, then turns to me. "You're in for it, though, Anne. When Mummy sees you now she's going to stuff waffles and bacon and things down your throat."

"Are you anorexic?" Lou asks, dropping my hem and looking at me pointedly. I can almost feel the burn of her gaze travel down to search my soul, and then I realize I'm being ridiculous and that I sound ominously like an emo song.

"No, Lou, I'm not. There's just literally been nothing to eat and no time to eat it in. And waffles sound really good," I say, trying to get her to believe me and let it drop. The truth is, I barely know myself anymore. If I had food in front of me, would I want to eat it? Lou looks at me suspiciously, then leads me to the side of the house, where the kitchen is, and plunks me down in a chair. "Elizabeth ate all the food, didn't she? Cow, I bet she'd stop if she just saw the size of her own ass—"

"—Lou," puts in Hen.

"—But I'm making you my famous Musgrove waffles. They're super good!" she says, and turns up the volume of the CD player so Ewen McGregor's voice is pumped through every corner. The smell of Musgrove waffles wafts through the air, and I admonish myself for the third time in twenty minutes for being totally wrong. Now that I smell them, I'm completely ravenous, and I watch Louisa's movements with a wolfish hunger, waiting for her to take the waffles out of the iron. I feel almost like holding my fork and knife perpendicular to the table, like in the old Saturday morning cartoons I used to watch with my mother.

Before the plate can reach me, however, another big pair of arms enfolds me, and I am brought close to Mrs. Musgrove's large chest. Louisa turns the music down again as Mrs. Musgrove turns me around in my chair so I can embrace her, and I do with fervor. If I love anyone in this world like a mother, I love Mrs. Musgrove. She has always fed me, or given me a place to sleep, or listened to my opinions, or loved me, with no conditions and no questions. She rocks me from side to side a put, rubbing my back with her chubby hand, then steps back.

Mrs. Musgrove is not the average WASP woman. Most women around here try their hardest to maintain perfect figures, like Mary. They eat carrots with a side of steam, go to the gym every day for hours, or have personal trainers, and consider it bad form to have a spot that jiggles anywhere on their bodies. Not Mrs. Musgrove. Not fat, but chubby, with a sizeable bosom and bright twinkling eyes, she gives the impression that she doesn't give a damn about what other people think simply because it never crosses her mind that they would think negative things about her. Now, her shrewd eyes are a little sharp as she takes me in, and she turns to Lou and says, "Make that five waffles, Louey. This is going to take some work."

She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and sits down next to me. I lean my head against her shoulder, feeling my smile grow a little bit. It feels good to be home. But I straighten as Lou plunks a plate of food in front of me, and I tuck in with vehemence, enjoying the feeling of slowly getting full to bursting.

It feels _very_ good to be home.


	4. Be Careful

When I've succeeded in eating four waffles with butter and maple syrup, Mrs Musgrove pushes my plate away. I'm almost gasping at how full I am, but it feels good, and I know that my jeans, if I stand up, will fit tighter around me. _Well done. _

"Now Anne, honey, tell me how you're doing," says Mrs Musgrove. Lou and Hen settle down in their stools, listening avidly. I realize they must have heard about our pseudo-bankruptcy somewhere and are dying for full details. Mary would never have told them, and Charles would think it insensitive to gossip about his wife's family. And knowing the Musgrove women, that only made them more determined to hear the truth. And here I am, so it's going to be straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

Awesome.

But I really don't mind telling them. Besides Rochelle, they are the only ones I would ever tell everything to. So I lean my head back onto Mrs Musgrove's soft shoulder and spin everything out, as it happened. I don't tell them how I feel about it. They can guess for themselves, and besides, what's the point? I can't change anything anyway.

Lou looks more and more outraged as I keep talking, and she opens her mouth to interject hotly once or twice, but Hen stops her, touching her hand, raising her eyebrows. I'm grateful. Lou doesn't always understand why I do what I do; she's more passionate, more straightforward. She has more of a backbone. I'm always slightly wary of telling her anything because she'll regale me with a list of the things I should do, of what she would do in my position. Hen understands, though, that I don't need a sermon right now.

When I'm finished, Mrs Musgrove sighs, and pats my head, stroking my hair, which I've always loved. Hen speaks, after throwing a cautioning glance at Lou: "So what's happening now, then?" Her bright blue eyes are thoughtful, concerned. I feel a pang of guilt for making them all worry.

"Well, I'm here for now. For as long as Mary _insists _I help her with _everything_," I do a passable imitation of my sister's voice, and everyone chuckles. "And then, I don't know. Maybe I'll go live with my dad and Elizabeth when they've found a place. Maybe not. I'm not sure," I sigh, straightening myself up from off Mrs Musgrove's shoulder. "I might help them until they get back on their feet, you know? Then, when they're good, I can go do my own thing."

There's a little silence, and I know Lou is dying to speak, but Mrs Musgrove interrupts her. "Are you all settled in the house?"

I pull a wry grin, "All my stuff is in the foyer still, I'm pretty sure. Unless 'Eve'—"

"—Yvonne—" all three put in.

"—took them already," I finish, smiling. "I kind of didn't want to spend a whole lot of time there just yet."

Lou pushes her stool away from the island, jumping up. She can't sit in the same place for very long, and she's probably frustrated with me as well, so she can't wait to occupy herself with something else. She clears away the dishes, liberating me of the fork I'm fiddling with, talking to Hen at a louder volume about a boyfriend or a boy friend, I can never tell which. Mrs Musgrove pats my shoulder again, and I turn to see her kind, wonderful, understanding eyes twinkle at me.

"Don't feel hurt, honey. She doesn't understand. There are some things that Lou's good at, but understanding other people's personalities and motivations is not one of them. She just doesn't understand, is all."

I nod, quirking my mouth up, and placing my head back on her shoulder. I'm so full, I can almost feel my stomach expanding, millimeter by millimeter, so full all I want to do is take a small siesta right here at the counter.

In fact, that sounds like an excellent idea.

Surrounded by the smell of food and lively chatter, I close my eyes and drift off.

* * *

I wake up on the couch in the den. It's big and plush, the kind you'd see in a Martha Stewart catalogue, only I doubt Martha has a penchant for electric blue with turquoise piping. A blanket is thrown across my legs, and I'm so comfortable, I don't want to move. The TV is staring at me, and I can almost hear it calling me to find the most mindless thing possible and watch it until my eyes fall out.

Sounds enticing, no?

I reach for the remote, but it's just beyond the extent of my arm. I try again, without moving, hoping that somehow I've suddenly acquired the Force or telekinetic powers. To no avail. I sigh in frustration, scooting myself slightly, but not shifting very much. No good. I can touch the thing now, but I'm not close enough to grab it. Dilemma. I want mindless, numbing, boring, and stupid TV that makes me despair for the future of my country and the world at large, but I'm not prepared to leave my warm nest to make it happen.

I'm finally considering actually moving when Lou walks into the room, seeing my poor arm outstretched in a vain attempt to add bone mass and length, and she laughs.

"What do you want to watch?" She says, picking up the remote and flopping herself down at the end of my feet. "My Super Sweet Sixteen?"

"Even I won't go that low," I scoff.

"Okay…we've got your Pimp My Rides, your America's Next Top Model Marathon, your Lizzie McGuire, your…what is that, Hellboy? Miss Congeniality…Die Hard With a Vengence…the Wedding Planner…Harry Potter—"

"Which one?"

"Number one. Nope?"

"Nope."

"Saving Private Ryan…"

"Does it seem like they show the same movies over and over, or is it just me?"

"Totally just you. Absolutely paranoid. I don't know what I'm going to do with you and your theories." She giggles as I prod her with my foot. "Oooh! Angry Beavers!"

"Hell yes!" I settle in for good old school cartoon watching, prepared to let my mind shut up for a while. But Lou isn't ready for that just yet.

"Hey Anne?" I try to keep from sighing. I know what's probably coming.

"Hey what?"

"Why do you always let your family tell you what to do?" She says it conversationally, and it is, in a way. We've talked about this before; there's nothing new to say.

"Someone has to save them from themselves."

"That's a shitty answer!"

"It's the one I've got, Lou," I settle my head on the crook of my elbow, hoping she'll take the hint.

"No, Anne, come on. You're so cool, and everyone you're related to sucks. Why not look out for yourself?"

Mrs Musgrove had been right, Lou doesn't understand, and couldn't, really. I'm silent for a while, trying to think of a less condescending way of saying that to her, but I don't find one, and the time for saying anything has passed. I watch the cartoon beavers yell at each other, and let the conversation slide. When the show's done, Lou grabs the remote and starts flicking through channels again, not asking my opinion this time. She settles on Boy Meets World, and I think about closing my eyes to go back to sleep when she says: "You know the Crofts are coming to visit, right?"

I freeze. The Crofts are his sister and brother-in-law. His coach. I thought I'd escaped them by coming here.

"Why?" is all I can think to say.

"They wanted to meet all the family, and I think Mummy and Daddy know them a little. And they said they've heard a lot about you, too, so they want to meet you. They said they didn't get a chance to before."

_Oh God. _This was when the torch and pitchforks would come out. And I'd deserve it, but that doesn't mean I relish the idea.

"Oh," I say, trying to sound mildly interested rather than as if I'm facing a firing squad.

"Hey, did you know that Mrs Croft's Ahmir Wentworth's sister? I mean, you're practically renting to royalty! A demi-god, if you will. Maybe he'll come here and I'll get to meet him. Wouldn't that be sweet?"

She's excited, and funny, but I'm not laughing. Suddenly, a very real, very scary possibility has entered my head, and I'm stark frozen in terror. _What if he does come here? What the hell will I do? _I prod Lou with my feet again to get her thinking I'm teasing her for her exuberance. In reality, though, I'm very much in fear of the future.

Which, I tell myself from that corner of the brain that can stay ironic when everything else is frozen, is kind of what you wanted when you started watching TV in the first place.

Awesome, indeed.


	5. Prepare the Way

Dinner this evening is interesting. Charlie is eating with us, and by eating I mean running around behind our chairs and flicking mac and cheese at everyone around the table. Mary tries to put her foot down, to her credit, but so does everyone else around the table, each giving him different instructions. I watch in interest as Charlie continually refuses to put the food in his mouth, my eyebrows raised as Charles uses the old "There are children starving in Africa," always a last resort line in any situation.

Mr Musgrove leans over to me. "It's a good thing you're here, Anne." He doesn't elaborate. He's not one for talking in general, so I understand how bad things probably are between the two sets of the family. Mrs Musgrove and Mary have never gotten along, and since Mary tends to be ignorant at best when it comes to dealing with Charlie, it's not hard to imagine that they're even more at odds than before.

As the instructions become more rapid-fire from both ends of the table, I catch Charles's eyes. He looks exasperated, at a loss, and rolls his eyes a bit at me. Lou, down the table, makes a very pointed gesture with her hands. Apparently, this sort of thing is usual when they get together. I watch, almost wincing, as Mary stoops lower and lower to get Charlie to do what she wants, knowing she'll blame my presence here for this little public self-flagellation. At least, that's how she'd put it.

I identify that as my first project: work on Charlie. Once Mary equates me with familial harmony, she'll stop blaming the things that go wrong on me. The faster she learns how to take care of things on her own, the sooner I can leave.

Perfect plan.

* * *

Once Charlie's in bed, which takes a full forty-five minutes to accomplish, the adults take coffee and more alcoholic beverages in the kitchen. There is a rush of noise and clinking of glasses and mugs, and people chatting. Even a party this small gets hazy for me, and my eyelids start to droop, my head falling back against the cupboard from my perch on the counter. Mary would usually disapprove, but she's too busy flirting outrageously with Charles that she doesn't even bother with me. I close my eyes and let the sound go in one ear and out the other, but before I can doze off in earnest, I feel a hand on my arm. 

I open my eyes to see Mrs Musgrove standing next to me, her usually jolly face a little more serious. I'm awake immediately.

"What is it?"

She steals a look at Mary, and then, when she's perfectly sure that Mary won't be butting in, she murmurs, "Honey, could you do me a favor?"

I nod, now even more serious than before. "What is it?"

"Well, you saw how Charlie was at dinner. Mary's doing nothing to help the situation. She's actually only made it worse, with all the nannies and the big toys and the other things. She sends him over to me, and he doesn't listen to anything. He's broken a lot of things George and I have had since we were married. He's ripped things down, and the more I ask him to stop, the more he keeps going. I eventually have to feed him to calm him down, and then Mary gets angry at me for spoiling his dinner. About the only thing that wasn't spoiled in the first place, if you ask me." She turns her eyes back to me, and sees I'm still waiting for her to ask me that favor. "If you could, I don't know, talk to Mary, influence her, show her how to deals with Charlie, it would be a huge feat. I love my grandson and I want to get along with my daughter-in-law, but they make it so hard."

I smile down at her and rub her arm with my hand. "I'll do my best, Mrs Musgrove, but I'm not really an expert on child-rearing myself, you know."

She smiles at me, and me at her. We're about to be locked in a deep Girl-Power bond when Mr Musgrove clears his throat. The room goes quiet immediately; when Mr Musgrove does speak, the world listens.

"I have an announcement to make." He pauses, and while it could be for dramatic effect, it's more likely to be because he hates speaking in front of people, and needs to clear his thoughts. "As most of you know, Mr and Mrs Croft are visiting us, and especially you and Mary, Anne, next week. What I didn't know is that they'll be bringing her brother, a certain soccer player we all know—" squeals from the fridge underscore his words, "—a young Ahmir Wentworth, who'll be staying with them in the off-season. They're coming for dinner tomorrow night, and everyone here's invited," he looks awkward for a moment, as the room continues to stare at him. "That is all."

Lou and Hen squeal again, this time more animatedly. Mary and Charles are talking excitedly, and Mrs Musgrove goes to Mr Musgrove to calm him down post-speech.

And I am dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Having the Crofts come is bad enough, they'd only remind me of him. But having him come, _him_, would be horror. And he is living pretty close to us, he can really come whenever he wants. Will we have to speak to each other? God, what will I say? What can I say? He hates me, that's obvious. I don't blame him, I deserve it, I know. But it was different having him hate me out _there _somewhere. How am I supposed to look at his face, his real live face, every day and not crack? Not when I'm still in love with him. Not when I want to tell him…tell him…

This _would _happen. Karma. This kind of shit _would _happen to me just when everything is going downhill anyway. What the hell? I mean, I know I haven't exactly been Mother Theresa, but it's not like I'm another Elizabeth. And bad stuff doesn't really happen to her. So why me?

But beneath all the self-pity and mindless, absolute panic, I feel a flash of excitement. I'll get to see him again. Maybe I can change things, maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe—

But no, it _will _be bad. It will be hard, and upsetting, and painful. But I'll have to get through it. Because if I can survive this, then I can do anything.

At least that's what I tell myself as I excuse myself from the kitchen and go to lay down on my hard bed in the characterless guestroom and try to sleep.

The next day, Mary is all over the place. She's pouring on the invalid guilt real thick, alternately calling at me from her couch to keep her company, then snapping at me in the kitchen to play with Charlie. I'm chafing under her commands, but I grin and bear it. I don't have anywhere else to go, really, and I'll be damned if I'm going back to my dad and my sister right now.

Plus, all the work helps me keep my mind off how terrified I am. And I am. If I stop and think about it for too long, my pulse races and my breathing quickens and I can't stop thinking about him, and seeing him, and being in the same room with him. It's terrifying, and frustrating, and agonizing, because it's all done for me, and I know it. I'll have to just sit there and take whatever comes, because it's too late for me now.

It's almost time to go now. I'm standing in front of the full length mirror in the bathroom, a pile of clothes around me. Nothing fits me right, and in most of what used to be my pretty party clothes it's so easy to see how thin I am that I'm embarrassed to even imagine their reactions. I throw things down in frustration, leaning against the sink. It's too soon, but I've got no choice.

A scream interrupts my reverie. I throw a bathrobe over my bra and underwear and rush outside to Mary's voice crying "Charlie! Charlie!" over and over again.

My blood freezes. He was supposed to be in bed at six thirty, and since I put him to bed myself, I knew that he must have escaped. I ran down the stairs to the foyer in time to see Mr Musgrove carrying a small, limp form in his arms up past me to Charlie's room. Mary is still screaming hysterically, and for once, I can't blame her. Charles barrels down the hall, too, stopping just short of the bedroom door, as if terrified of what's inside. Mr Musgrove is kneeling down next to the bed, and I join him.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He was climbing that magnolia tree outside, and he fell. I found him at the bottom," I run to get my small flashlight from my room, and pry up his eyelids to check for concussion. Satisfied that he didn't hit his head hard, I check the rest of him, running my hands over each part of him out of habit. When I touch his shoulder, he squirms and cries, and I feel the awkwardness of his shoulder blade.

"Dislocated," I say to Mr Musgrove, and I brace my nephew as I pop it back into place loudly. He cries louder, fully conscious now, and I stroke his head softly, making small "shushing" noises until he calms down.

All in all, the count isn't huge. A dislocated shoulder blade, a twisted ankle, and couple of bruises, that was all. When Charlie is finally asleep, and we have retreated from the room, Mr Musgrove turns to Charles and Mary, and says, "I'll explain to everyone else. They won't mind your not being there when—"

Charles interrupts him. "Wait, wait. If Charlie's really okay, then I'll go back with you. Mary and Anne can make sure Charlie's okay, and—"

"I can't believe you!" hisses Mary, "you're going to leave me here, when I could come with you! Obviously you don't want to spend time with me if you—"

"—Mary, that's not what I'm saying—"

"—Pig! You just want a night without me, is that it?"

"—Come on, I was just thinking—"

"—Oh, that's new!"

"—Hey! That's unfair!"

"Mary," I say, loud enough to cut through their ridiculous bickering, "you go. I'll stay here with Charlie. Go ahead."

Mary shoots a triumphant look at Charles, and in two minutes they are out of the door.

I go back to the guest room, shed my bathrobe, and throw on my pjs and an oversized sweatshirt. I should feel relieved, I know, and I do. I won't have to see him tonight, at a painfully awkward dinner party with Mary and Charles bickering in the background. I won't have to sit for hours in the same room with him and still come up with something productive to say.

But I'm disappointed too, and upset at myself for feeling so. I've spent the entire day gearing up for this, until I am almost ready to face him, and now I won't.

It's probably for the best, anyway. He won't want to see me, and I don't know him anymore. It's been five years. Both of us are different.

I step carefully down the stairs, and go to the fridge to find myself my own dinner. Thoughtfully poking my ribcage, I pull out eggs, cheese, ham, veggies, everything I can think of to make the World'd Biggest Omelette, and prepare for a night on my own.

* * *

Somebody pokes me awake. I struggle through the layers of sleep I've been floating under to see Lou's bright yellow hair in my face. I pick my head up from where it lay against the back of one of Charles's big armchairs and force myself to sit up. 

"What? What time is it?"

"About two-thirty." I become aware of more people in the room, and I sit up a little straighter. Lou has already turned off the TV, which I had drifted asleep watching, and I rub sleep out of my eyes as I take in the party.

Hen and Lou are pseudo-casual, captured in that stage of wanting to look exceptional without making it look like they think they look exceptional. Mary and Charles are a little more formally dressed, and Mr and Mrs Musgrove a little less. But why are the Musgroves here?

"You missed a really fun time, Anne," Lou puts in, beaming.

"By which she means it was horrible and you didn't miss a thing," says Hen stoutly, shooting a look at Lou. I roll my eyes and half-smile at them, and am about to say something when a movement at the back of the group catches my eye.

It's him. He hadn't been there before. I know it. But here's here now, and he's looking at me. Oh my God. I can barely think, and I know I'm staring at him, and I can't look away. Someone sees where I'm looking and makes an introduction of some kind. What should I say? That we've already met? That would sound crass to him, wouldn't it, to just say we've met and nothing more. But he nods at me politely, the hall light illuminating his dark skin, and I find it in me to nod back, and say, "Hello," More than that, I don't know what to do.

He looks so good. Not just good in that kind of "I love you, so of course you're beautiful to me," but in the actual sense of "looking good." He was always well dressed, always fit, but he's aged well. He looks even better than he did five years ago. And I, most decidedly, do not. I look miserable, and pathetic, and what must that seem to him? I can't even imagine what he's thinking. It must be terrible to see me. It's terrible to see him, because for all that I thought I could stand it, to see him and to know he hates me is worse than anything.

Mary saves me, in her way, from making a total idiot of myself. She leans over the couch back and says to me, "Now that you're up, would you mind making us some coffee? We were just going to sit around and talk. The coffee maker's in the kitchen."

My blood suddenly boils. First of all, only a complete idiot would need directions on finding the coffee maker. Secondly, she hasn't even mentioned her son yet, or asked how he's doing. Thirdly, she's treating me like a maid in front of everyone! Unbe-freaking-lievable.

"Do it yourself." I shrug the blanket off me to Lou smile of approval and Mary's incredulous laugh.

"I just asked for a favor, Anne, I didn't expect you to—"

"If that's why you woke me up, then you can shove it. I'm going back to bed, goodnight everyone." I try not to look at him as I walk out the door, but it's hard, and I don't quite manage it. I catch his eye for a second, and for a second, I'm going to turn around and say something to him. But then I look away. There's no point, not anymore. I failed, I fucked up. It's too late for me.

I'm about to climb up the stairs two at a time when I turn around and call to Mary, who is now looking extremely self-righteous in the doorway. "Charlie's fine, by the way. Thought you might want to know." Then I turn my back on her and take the stairs two at a time, eager to be as far away from them as possible.


	6. Charming Formulae

The worst is over. I've seen him; I've been in the same room as him. I didn't spontaneously combust, I didn't break down, I didn't faint. All in all, very successful. I might be able to spend time in his presence without wanting to die, or to break and explain everything, which is all so irrelevant now that it doesn't even matter to anyone but me. I might be able to do that now.

But we can't ever be friends. That much is obvious; it would be stupid to ask for it or expect it. That almost never happens anyway. Lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, and listening to the distant voices downstairs, I'm captured by the strangeness of it all. Five years ago, we knew everything there was to know about each other. We could tell with a look how the other was feeling; we could talk without actually talking. Five years ago, no one was more important to me than he was. I knew him like I knew my own face. But now I didn't know him at all. I knew the body, and if I saw him smile, I'd remember that, too. But we're strangers now. I don't know this man and he doesn't know me. And it's worse than that, too, because we'll never be friends again. We'll stay strangers forever.

_Hot damn, girl, you _are _melodramatic_, my brain tells me. But it's three in the morning, I reason, and if there's ever a time a girl can be melodramatic about anything is when she sees her ex-boyfriend for the first time when she looks like shit and broke his heart five years ago and is operating on very little sleep.

_Good excuse. Well structured__. You should save that one. _

_Shut up. _

"And you must be Anne. It's nice to finally meet you." Mrs Croft is ravishingly beautiful, a good half head taller than me, and smiling. Her hand shake is firm and her eyes sincere. I decide immediately that I like her. I decide almost as quickly that I really hope that she doesn't know anything about Ahmir and me.

But it seems like she doesn't know, because she goes right on talking to me, smiling her earnest smile, and making me feel at home in my own house.

Mr Croft can read my thoughts, apparently. "Is it too weird for you to be here? We tried to make it as different as possible so you don't feel like you're being usurped." They want me to like them, it's plain to see. I smile and shake my head, aware of everyone else arrayed around the den, now looking at me curiously.

"No, actually, it's not too bad. I like what you've done, I would never have thought of putting a couch there," I indicate where Mr and Mrs Musgrove are sitting; "it really opens up the room."

From there the conversation moves on to other things. Mary talks about her declining health, Lou and Hen chat Ahmir up about soccer and sports in general, Charles discusses the wonders of golf with Mr Croft. I sit back and look around at my old house, happily surprised by how comfortable I feel here.

They're not gaudy people, the Crofts. They like nice things, but nice in the simpler sense of the word. They don't need to show how wealthy they are by how much or what they own. It's clean, and homey, and infinitely more inviting now. I could totally forget I'm in my father's old home if I'm here for long enough. But I won't be. _He_ lives here too, now.

I try not to look at him. I focus on the black and white photographs on the wall just behind the couch I'm sitting on. They're a little formulaic—big tree, huge flowers, sunny hills—but it's charming formula. They were taken by someone and given as gifts, not bought in a Hallmark store. I try to find new things to focus on, but I can feel his presence across the room, and I feel like he's looking at me.

Don't do it. Don't look back. Be strong. I try not to think of whose room he's sleeping in. Is it my old one, at the top of the stairs to the left? Or is it Mary's? Well, it has a better view, but it's too bright in the morning and it's right over the road; he wouldn't like that. Or it could be any one of the guest rooms, but they're stuffy and boring. So he might be in—

Stop. Thinking. About. It.

I turn back from the pictures to find him looking at me. His eyes are hooded, and his face is impassive. I could never tell what he was thinking when he looked like that. I want to give him stare for stare, but I don't. I could stare at him all day, but I won't.

_You made a choice, Anne. Stick with it, won't you. _

A choice. Okay. So. I'll just—

"So, Ahmir, how long do you plan on staying here?" Charles shoots the question across the room, seeing, perhaps, Lou's keen interest in the subject. Ahmir glances at him and smiles his charming, bright smile, all traces of his pensive mood gone. "Actually, Nadya invited me to stay with them for the whole off-season. She's been traveling a lot for work, and Adam and I have been gone for soccer most of the year. This way, we can spend a lot of time together," he smiles fondly at his sister, who returns it warmly. They're very close, and I find myself almost smiling, too.

Lou is beaming. "So you'll be here for a while, then?" She says, truly delighted. Hen looks just as glad, and I find myself hoping that he thinks they're too young for him, that he'll humor them, maybe flirt with them, but nothing more.

_Okay, so this is not a good start, you. _I pinch the base of my thumb, forcing myself back to the present.

"Yeah, at least a few months. Time to relax, spend time with my family—"

"Maybe find a girl—" puts in Mr Croft.

"Not that I'll have luck with that uggo pushing me," Ahmir continues, pulling a face at his brother-in-law, who makes a play of picking up a couch cushion and throwing it at him. I look away, bothered that it bothers me to hear him be so flippant.

"So you're single, then," says Mrs Musgrove, with a laughing look at Lou, who looks ready to jump out of her skin with glee.

"Single as they come," he returns blithely, another smile flashing across his lips. The women sit back in content as conversation turns to Mrs Croft's job, furniture dealers, optimal times of the day to drink massive amounts of coffee, and the like. I contribute to this more than I have before, hoping that the subject of Ahmir's love life won't come up again.

"So Ahmir, tell us about your ideal woman," says Mrs Musgrove teasingly. I'm sitting next to Mr Musgrove, and I can feel the inaudible groan he emits at this question. He is heinously uncomfortable at this moment, and I am no better myself, though my motives are more selfish.

Dinner is delicious, and I'm making myself eat more than I feel hungry for, because it will give me something to do besides look up and across the table and feel his eyes on me. Or not on me. I can't figure out which is worse at the moment.

"My ideal woman?" Ahmir laughs, his eyebrows raised incredulously at the question. There are a few chuckles around the table at his reaction, and he laughs softly down at his plate as his pushes a piece of broccoli around with his fork.

"Don't worry, Cap, I've got it," says Mrs Croft, spreading her hands dramatically and going perfectly still. "She'll have to be intelligent, and interesting, not overbearing, relaxed and relax_ing_, easy-going, fun-loving, and upbeat. Have I missed anything?" she leans forward teasing her younger brother, who wrinkles his nose again at her in response, smiling again.

"Actually, you missed a little," he says slyly, watching as Mrs Croft pulls a mock-horrified face, "the most important thing is that she makes her own decisions and stands by them. I want someone who's confident, and stubborn, and who doesn't cave easily to pressure. _That's _my ideal woman," he concludes, looking up from his plate again and flashing a smile around the table.

"Cap?" Hen asks, pulling Ahmir's attention to her, before Lou can say anything. Ahmir laughs again, and he and Mr Croft go to answer at the same time, then stop, and Ahmir motions for Mr Croft to keep going, smiling good-naturedly.

"His nickname. 'Cap,' like 'captain,' like 'team captain.' He didn't like it at first, but it stuck, and now he can't get rid of it." The two of them get into another bout of good-natured ribbing, which the whole company has come to enjoy by now.

And I want to die. He hates me. He hates me. I knew he would, I knew he wouldn't have forgiven me, but still, to have it said so blatantly—to have it obviously directed at me—hurts me more than I could have imagined. Mostly because it's true, because everything he's said and will say about me, however indirect, is true. I let him down, I cracked under pressure, I didn't stand by my decision. It's true.

I breathe slowly, bringing my water glass to my mouth to disguise my face, forcing my eyes to be dry, to not notice the prickling at the back of my eyeballs. This will not make me cry. Nothing will make me cry. At least I can have that.

"Nadya, are you on sabbatical, then?" asks Mr Musgrove, cutting through what I'm sure he thinks to be very silly conversations between Lou, Hen, and Ahmir. Nadya turns her luminous eyes to Mr Musgrove and hesitates for a second, then shakes her head. "Actually, I quit my job last month." The entire room quiets, looking at her with interest.

"Why?" Lou is almost more intrigued by this idea than by Ahmir's rippling muscles, and she leans across the table, eager for an explanation. Mrs Croft smiles slightly at Lou's enthusiasm, shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and says, "Well, I didn't really like it at all."

That seems inadequate for everyone present. She tries again. "I've had it since before I met Adam, and I kept it past when we were married. I didn't need to, necessarily, but I chose to because I wasn't going to let myself be one of those women who suddenly drops everything when she gets married. Adam had his job, and he was good at it, and I had mine. We both traveled, but it wasn't as bad as it's been recently, because I got a promotion two years back that made it so I took about twelve trips a year, and of course when the season's on, Adam and Cap are traveling all over the place, and I never got to see either of them. Long distance relationships aren't good in the long run, but it would have been one thing if I liked my job. I didn't like it, I just kept it to prove I could. But Adam loves his job, and there was no question of his giving it up, because I love it, too. So," she says, sighing a little and sitting back in her chair, "I quit my bad job so I could do what I really want to do, and it's been fabulous."

"What _do _you want to do?" I ask, interested in spite of myself.

"Write, actually," she says, casting her eyes down, as if embarrassed by our potential reactions. "One of my books is being published, and I'm working on another right now. And this way, when Adam goes off somewhere for soccer, I can go with him. No separation." The two of them smile at each other, and Mr Croft reaches over to squeeze her hand softly, his eyes gentle. It's a beautiful thing to see.


	7. Mind Like a Diamond

"So how's your son doing?" Ahmir asks over coffee. We're still all sitting around the dinner table, as we have been for the past two hours, and my leg is starting to bounce up and down with the need to move and stretch. I wonder that Ahmir looks so calm and sedate; he used to hate sitting in one place for too long, even more than I do. The coffee doesn't help, either.

"Well, thank you," Charles says, nodding to Ahmir in appreciation for his consideration.

"What happened exactly?" Adam looks around the table quizzically, "I was in your house when it happened, Mrs Musgrove, but I don't know the whole story."

"Charlie was climbing a tree in the backyard, and he fell," says Mrs Musgrove, shaking her head slightly. "Honestly, you take your eyes off him for one minute…dislocated his shoulder and sprained his ankle, but luckily Anne was there and she put everything back where it should have been."

The whole table turns to look at me for the first time since we sat down in the living room, and I feel strangely apprehensive, like I'm in front of a firing squad and not in the company of friends and almost-friends. Ahmir's looking at me again, and I catch his eye for a second before I turn a nervous smile around the table, then look down at my plate, extremely uncomfortable. "It was nothing big, really," I manage quietly.

Mary corroborates this immediately. "It really wasn't. I would have done it if I wasn't so sick, but the way it was…and seeing Charlie…it was too much." The table makes sympathetic noises, but I don't have to look at Ahmir to feel his contempt for Mary. I don't have to look at Ahmir, but I do, of course, and I see him nonchalantly sipping coffee, catching first Lou's eyes and then Hen's and smiling. Then Nadya leans over and says, "You fixed his dislocated shoulder yourself? That's impressive."

I smile, glad to have a distraction from the flirtation across from me. "It really was nothing big. I've done it a bunch of times."

"So you have some medical training, then? Don't tell me dislocated shoulders are big in Kellynch." Her mouth has the pleasant habit of turning up at the end of sentences, and I find myself smiling shyly back, shaking my head, "No, not the most popular injury here. People don't tend to be active enough here to dislocate anything."

"So you're a med student, then?" She's genuinely interested, and I find myself flattered by her attention.

"No, but I used to be an EMT and a lifeguard, so I still have that training. Things like that are a quick fix. If it'd been anything more serious, I wouldn't have been able to do much for him. As it was, it was—"

"—was at just the right level of badness for you to deal with."

"Exactly." Nadya turns across the table and calls to Ahmir, "Hey, Cap, did you hear that? Anne here used to be an EMT and a lifeguard, and—"

"No she didn't," says Mary immediately, "no you didn't," she looks at me accusatorially, like I've just lied to the Pope or something.

"Yeah, I did, actually," I say, aware of how uncomfortable an argument between us will make the group. "It was four years ago, so maybe you don't remember."

"You're right, I don't," she says, turning to smile beatifically at the rest of the group, "but if you say you were than it must be true." There is a small silence in which Lou pantomimes cutting Mary into tiny pieces by way of proposition and everyone else just looks awkward. I shake my head slightly at Lou, smiling down at my plate. Mr Croft speaks up.

"Well, however long ago it was, it was an excellent thing for you to do, Anne; you should be proud of yourself." He then leaps into an over enthusiastic conversation about golf with Charles, pulling the focus away from Mary's quiet seething and the fight we will not have when we get home. Mrs Croft smiles at me again, and I decide again that I like them a lot.

I feel Ahmir's eyes on me again, and when I turn to look at him this time he looks away quickly. I hope this won't be the way it is between us forever. I don't want to do this stupid dance for very much longer. I sit for a few more minutes, listening silently to why nine-irons can't be used as putters in a golf-club crisis, then excuse myself. I probably shouldn't be wandering the halls of someone else's home, since that's what it is now, but I doubt the Crofts will mind, and it gives me something to do. I walk past rooms that used to be redundant, filled with extra armchairs and mirrors and things. The Crofts have better use for them. Now I see papers and books filling the shelves of what I guess to be Nadya's office/writing space, and a white board and TV in Adam's. Now there's an exercise room, too, and a den, too, that looks a whole lot cozier than the living room-cum-drawing room where we had been sitting before.

I stop at the piano room. They haven't touched this place, I see. It's hard to remodel or repurpose a room when there's a full grand in the way. I walk over and softly touch the keys, brushing a little dust off the tops.

I can't really play the piano well. I can't read music at all, actually. The fact that a piano even occupies any room in my father's house is ironic, as both he and Elizabeth hate music. But I love sitting in front of pianos, and making up something with no consideration for theory or time. As long as a music major's not within hearing distance, I can play as much as I want without having to actually learn anything new.

I plink out a few chords, and then some more. I touch the pedals and stop, listening to the way the notes sound as they die. I press seven keys at once, hearing what goes together and what doesn't without actually knowing what goes together and what doesn't. And I don't bother to find out. This isn't a path of discovery for me.

I play for what I think is half an hour, before Nadya tracks me down. Mrs Croft opens the door quietly, and though I see her, I don't stop playing until I feel like I should. Then the hideously dissonant notes fade into silence as we look at each other.

Then I say, "So that was my first masterpiece. What did you think?"

"Can't play the piano?"

"Nope."

"Ah. Listen, I wanted to apologize," I'm confused, and my face tells her so. "I knew it would be weird for you, being here, but I thought it wouldn't be too bad. I'm sorry."

_Great, now she thinks I'm a total spaz loser with severe issues. Plunking away randomly on her piano like some deranged Miss Havisham? Way to go, Anne, way to go. Now you've managed to convince her that you're completely unhinged. Sweet._

"No, it's really not that bad. I really do like how you've changed it, and besides, you didn't force me to come here. I chose to, and I'm glad I did. It was nice to meet you and your husband. This," I continue, indicating the piano, "is something I always do when I sit down at a piano. You just had the good luck to come in at an especially Beethoven moment. Not that I think I'm up to snuff with Beethoven; I mean, he could read music, but the point is," I ramble, wishing again that I wasn't so awkward, "it sounded a bit angsty. Which was not my intent. It just happens when you press a lot of keys at the same time." I move over to make room for her on the piano bench, and she sits down without hesitation. "It's actually very therapeutic. You should try it some time." Now I'm smiling at her, and she's smiling back, with no trace of concern. She plays a few keys at random, letting them go like a novice. I show her my technique of holding them out for longer and adding new notes, and it looks like she's enjoying herself. So maybe I'm not a spaz loser after all.

"I'm sorry my sister's so rude," I say, finding that I can venture to break the silence between us with very little discomfort. "She doesn't mean to be rude, but she lacks tact. I'm sorry if she made you uncomfortable." I play a D and an A# together, focusing on the way my fingers are vaguely reflected in the shiny black of the piano face.

"I was actually more worried about you being offended," Mrs Croft says, and I look up at her in surprise. "From what I gathered at dinner, she doesn't seem to know a lot about you."

"She doesn't really. But she's so certain that she _does _know what she doesn't know that it's almost impossible to tell her anything that she _doesn't _know. It is the way it is," I say ruefully, shaking my head a little.

"Uh huh. Lou doesn't like her much, I see."

"You are extremely perceptive. I can't imagine how you picked that up."

"Must be my amazing powers of deduction."

"Absolutely fantastic."

"Brilliant emotional gumshoeing."

"Especially since Lou conceals her feelings so well."

"Indeed." I smile down at my hands, and strike a quiet chord before laying them still in my lap.

"Must be hard, to be caught in the middle of a family battle." I look at her again warily. She has an interested, cutting look in her eyes that I recognize instantly. There is family resemblance, after all.

But I don't tell her that. "You trying to get a good story out of this? Maybe add it to your repertoire of human struggle?" I lean in a little, "I have a sneaking suspicion you don't need me to answer your questions at all. You've got this figured the way you want it to be figured, and anything I say will just go into your character study of me and my faults."

"I'm characterizing your faults?"

"Everyone has them. It's what we notice, along with the strengths. No one's perfect."

"What are your faults, then?"

I freeze. Does she know? Is this how she's going to tell me she knows? But no, she can't know, not if she loves her brother as much as she obviously does. If she knew, she wouldn't waste time trying to get to know me or being nice to me, or take the time to apologize. Maybe she was just interested in me for some other reason.

So I smile innocently at her, and press a few keys. "Well, for one thing, I barge into other people's houses uninvited," I changed the chords now, "at mess around with their musical instruments. Not very mature, I know, but I'm working on it." I give her one more glance before I get up off the bench and leave the room quietly, joining my group out in the foyer.

"Anne, where have you been?" Mary snaps at me, "I've have the worst headache, and we couldn't leave without you!" I grab my jacket and fling it over my shoulders, almost braining Mr Croft, who luckily has his back turned. Lou and Hen are standing at an uncomfortably close distance to Ahmir, who doesn't look like he objects to it. I look at him closely for a second before he looks up, trying to see if he prefers one over the other, if he has any kind of intention toward any one in particular. I can't see it. But he's enjoying it, and it bothers me.

Then he looks up, looks directly at me, and I freeze for a moment before I look away, adjusting my jacket collar and winding my scarf around my neck. He looks past me, and without turning around, I see from the corner of my eye that Mrs Croft has followed me out to the foyer. Hopefully Ahmir won't make the connection until we leave. After a quick goodbye, we are gone, and I'm putting as much distance between that house and me.

Strange how two siblings can get under my skin in completely different ways. If I were smart, I'd leave right now, get back to dad and Elizabeth, or find a place of my own and just do my own thing. That would be the smartest thing of all. But I'm not smart, apparently, because I like them. I like them all, and I love him, and instead of ringing those warning bells in my head, I find myself looking forward to the next time we meet each other. I find myself wishing I could confide in her, and spend time with them.

_Which is dumb, by the way_, I remind myself. Which I know. I know it, I do. I can't be friends with them, so I have to put distance between us, and hope we don't see each other often. Hope that Lou and Hen won't invite Ahmir to spend a lot of time with them during their year off. Hope I'll be too busy to be worried about it.

Hope that Mrs Croft's questions about Mary and my family won't insinuate themselves too deeply in my memory. Because out of everything else, that is the most disastrous thing that can come of all this.


	8. Time to Leave the Table

That night, I dream a mixed-up version of the past. I dream about things that happened, and didn't happen, and could have happened. I dream I say things I didn't. I dream that I am something I'm not. I dream about things so jumbled I can't follow a story at all.

I wake up crying.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight, young miss Elliot," says Lou, arms akimbo, her mouth smiling ruefully, "you can save lives and swim like a fish, drive like The Italian Job, put up with Mary's shit, _and _you know every rule in soccer?"

"It is the world's favorite sport," turning the volume down on the TV. It's an Arsenal v Real Madrid game, and it's exciting, but Lou's talking, so I try to pull my focus to her.

"Yeah, but I didn't know it was _your _favorite sport. I thought you weren't that sporty."

"I'm not. Some things are just gripping, you know?"

"Like a choke-hold."

"Like a half-nelson."

"Like an episode of 24."

"Like a mystery novel."

"Like Ahmir Wentworth's biceps," she breathes, falling back on the couch. She wants to say something else, but doesn't. I look down at my lap, or more accurately her feet, which are in my lap, then pick at the nail polish on my thumb.

"You really like him, don't you?"

"Don't _you?_" There is no double meaning in that, so I just shrug, throwing at smile at her, turning to watch Lehmann make an amazing save. "Come on Anne, you have to have eyes, right? Unless you like girls, which is okay too."

I roll my eyes a little. "I don't have to be a lesbian to not be attracted to Ahmir. And I bet a lot of lesbians would be attracted to him, too."

"So you _do _think he's hot?"

"What do you want me to say, Lou? You want me to say he's attractive, or do you want me to say you should tap that?"

"Both. And since when do you say things like 'tap that'? But he's not a piece of ass or anything. Not that I'm that kind of girl anyway, but still. He's nice, he's smart, he's charming, and my God he's unimaginably, unattainably, indecently gorgeous. It wouldn't be bad if we…you know…"

I don't want to hear much more of this. Mental images—very bad mental images—are now popping up, and I focus on a corner kick to take them away. But Lou is confiding in me: she needs my input, needs my support, and she has no idea about Ahmir and me. And she shouldn't, either. If Ahmir has moved on, and if Lou is the girl, then knowing about my past will only hurt her. Better that she doesn't know. Better that no one ever knows.

"Uh huh," I say, shooting her a glance. She prods me with her heel. "Shut up, you. It's just been a while."

"What's a while for you, Lou? Like a month, maybe?"

"Totally ignoring the fact that you might be calling me easy, yes, in fact, I have been sexless for a month. At least. _No me gusta_."

"But seriously, a month? That's not bad. Try a couple years."

Lou's eyes widen, and she half sits up. "You haven't had sex in years?"

"Is this conversation making you uncomfortable? Because it's making me uncomfortable."

"Like, how many years, Anne?"

"Wow, look at that cross. See, if a forward wants to set up a goal, he'll—"

"None of your dodging, lady! You'll tell me right now!"

"What's Anne going to tell you?" Hen has wandered in and taken up residence on the arm behind Lou's head, and is looking between us expectantly. And since Lou can never let anything go, and since she obviously wants to know without any real regard for how uncomfortable I am at the moment, she lets her sister in on the fun.

"Anne hasn't had sex in years. _Years_." 

"Whoa, really? Like, how many years?"

"None of your business," I'm starting to get more than a little annoyed at this. They're staring at me like I'm a monkey in a zoo, and I don't feel like being treated like a freak because I'm not a sexual animal.

"Anne, come on, don't get so defensive about it. It's not a _bad _thing, it's just, you know… And we never talk about that stuff. We should at least do it this one time, while we're on the subject."

"While _we're _on the subject, Hen? _We_? There is no _we _about it. _You _guys are on the subject, I'd be more than happy to talk about soccer again, or shoes, or cartoons, or the increasingly ugly political strata in the Middle East. All of those things, I will talk about. This, however, not so much."

That should be the end of it, but it's not. Much as I love the two of them, they're not into the whole 'personal boundary' thing. Or any boundary, really. I put it down to their privileged upbringing that they expected what they wanted to come to them eventually. Throughout an entire hour and a half, during the rest of the game I had been happy to watch before, they wheedle and wheedle me, slipping in random comments and non-so-subtle hints. I could get up and leave. I could get away from them. But I know I won't hear the end of it until I tell them anyway, and besides, I was here first. I'm watching something, unlike them. They're just there for the public flagellation.

Finally, a small, snide side-comment from Hen makes me so mad that my resolve snaps. I let my breath out abruptly, snapping:

"All right! Okay! Five, okay? Five years! Okay? Happy?"

They haven't been expecting an outburst. At the most, they've been expecting an eye-roll and a heavy sigh, like I usually give when they wheedled something out of me. But this made me mad, this intrusion into my personal life. Who are they to judge me, anyway? They have no right to tell me what was weird and what wasn't, especially not this. I had had enough of it. I push Lou's feet off my lap, curl myself up into as small a ball as I can on the couch, and turn my face resolutely toward the screen, trying hard to quell my anger in the uncomfortable silence.

* * *

I see a lot of Ahmir in the next two weeks. On Wednesday, Lou decides that I've left something important at my old house. We catch going out for walk. On Thursday morning, we go to the park and have a picnic. On Saturday, we decide to go see a movie. It goes on from there. Hen and Lou come up with a million and one ways to justify spending time with him, and he certainly doesn't complain. I accompany them on their excursions to give it further legitimacy. Thankfully, no one really takes any notice of me, and I get to walk behind them on the sidewalks, sit on the outside of the rows, and avoid eye contact without anyone asking why I'm not participating. As a general rule, their conversations aren't really interesting anyway.

On the second Friday, we go to a malt shop complete with the waitresses in poodle skirts and roller skates. I'm eating fries absent-mindedly, looking after our hostess and feeling a wave of sympathy for the kitch factor her job entails, when I hear Lou say, "So Hen, how's Chris doing?"

I turn around. This is the first time I've heard anything about anyone named Chris. From the way Lou said it, though, I guess he's significant. Hen, who's just said something really funny and cute, stops mid-smile. Maybe she's been hoping that Lou wouldn't mention him so she'd have a fair shot at Ahmir. Or maybe she's just interested in no-strings-attached flirting. Either way, I get the feeling that Lou's just violated some sort of unspoken promise.

There's a moment's awkward pause. I catch's Ahmir's gaze in brief agreement, then look quickly away to Hen, who smiles, and says, "He's doing great, Lou. He's actually coming back from his grandmother's in a couple days."

"Chris is Hen's boyfriend," Lou clarifies to Ahmir and me, smiling a little in a way that worries me. "He's been gone for a few weeks, which is why you haven't met him, Anne. You should see the two of them together. So cute!" She gives the smile again, and my friend, the fair, down-to-earth Lou, disappears for a second.

"Well, he must be a great guy, Hen," says Ahmir smoothly, smiling at Hen. "He'd have to be, to deserve you."

"Tell me about him," I say, too timid to lump Ahmir and me into an "us." Lou has the grace to look a little sheepish, but then Hen launches into her spiel, and Lou settles back into her booth, closer to Ahmir. I can she thinks she's won him now, and it almost disgusts me. If she's willing to play dirty with her own sister to get him, this was no ordinary infatuation. Lou has a reputation for bearing down until she gets what she wants, and now that she wants Ahmir, I'm afraid of how low she'll go to get his attention.

Around the time Hen is telling me about Chris's ability with cars ("Damn, he can do something _useful,_" quips Ahmir, "he's already ten times cooler than I am."), her cell phone buzzes on the table. When she picks it up, her face falls a little, then she smiles broadly. "Speak of the devil."

I get up to let her scoot out, then sit back down, keeping an eye on her through the diner window.

"Chris sounds really cool," Ahmir says to the general company. Lou and I both nod and make non-committal sounds: we're watching Hen through the window. Suddenly, there's tension in her shoulders, and her fingers are moving nervously along the hem of her shirt. But she's smiling happily, too. That confuses me. How can she be so apprehensive when she obviously loves hearing his voice? Lou turns around and starts to suck up her milkshake. I hope she's feeling good and low right now, because it was a shitty thing to do so publically. Not that I condone Hen fantasy-cheating on her boyfriend, who does sound like a cool guy.

There's silence at the table for a while. The hostess rolls over after a little and refills my basket of fries, which I've downed mechanically. I'm finally starting to flesh out a little, thanks in part to the enormous mountains of food Mrs Musgrove dishes out for me every time I see them. I make a mental note to start exercising eventually. As I pour ketchup over my fries, I notice that Hen has closed her phone and is standing on the sidewalk, arms folded, waiting.

Chris is back. Too soon. And he's coming here, to meet a girlfriend he can't wait to see. I'm torn between deep pity for Chris and concern for Hen. Now that's she's told us about him, she can't just go out walking with him. We have to meet him, and talk to him, and Hen has to determine how she feels about him in our company, with Ahmir Wentworth, People's Sexiest Man Ever, sitting right across the table.

As it turns out, we don't have long to wait. Chris crosses the street, takes Hen in a big hug, and smiles down at her. He's very good-looking; middle-height, stocky, powerful, with a charming smile. He's been gone for awhile, and it's obvious he's missed Hen. Hen smiles back at him tentatively, and then happily. I'm guessing they haven't been apart for any extended period before this. Hen's glad to see him, but there's still this crush to explain away. Or lie to cover.

They come into the diner, and walk toward our table. Chris stops a little when he sees Ahmir, who's smiling amiably. Hen hurries to introduce them. "Chris, this is Ahmir Wentworth, a friend of ours. And this is Anne, our sister-in-law. Anne, Ahmir, this is Chris Hayter." Ahmir holds out his hand to shake and Chris takes it, smiling a little. "Hey, man, nice to meet you." Then we shake hands, as well, and I slide in to let them sit down. Chris sits down on the end, now looking a little angry.

"Nice to meet you, Chris, we've heard so much about you," says Ahmir, who looks completely at ease. I know differently. There's a slight tension in his shoulders, and he's smile's a little too friendly.

_Let that teach you to be careful who you flirt with, Ahmir Wentworth._ Lou is watching the action with wide eyes, and she's playing with her straw distractedly.

"Yeah? Funny, I've heard nothing about you, Ahmir. Only about Anne over there," he gestures to me and half-smiles. I half-smile back, really pitying him now. What was Hen thinking, not even telling Chris about him? What has anyone been thinking these past two weeks? "You're kind of a mystery. But at least I can guess that you're the reason she hasn't returned my calls lately."

"Chris—" Lou starts, ready to jump in now for her sister who looks like she won't be able to say anything.

"No, Lou, don't try to cover it up, okay? It's not fair when both of you are lying," he gets up, and Hen, almost paralyzed, looks up at him. "Not that you had to, Hen. You should have just told me the truth, instead of lying. That would have been way easier." He turns on his heel and walks out. Hen sits still for just a moment, then bolts after him, calling his name as she's halfway through the door, and running out into the night. The three of us sit in silence for a few minutes. Lou looks thunderous and gobsmacked at the same time, which is a feat, but she's leaning against Ahmir for support, and when she puts her head on his shoulder and he lets it stay, I decide I've had enough. I fish in my pocket for a ten and put it on the table before sliding out of the booth. "Right, that's enough for me tonight. See you guys later." I head out, ignoring Lou's face and Ahmir's eyes, and stepping out into the night. There's a little bit of crispness to the air now, and it helps calm me down as I start to walk home.

* * *

A/N: Okay, this is my last author's note, I promise. I have a new website, for everyone interested. You can get it through a link from my author's page. What makes it not narcissistic and boring is that it's actually the homepage of the Jane Austen Project, a film project of my own creation, which I hope you or anyone you know is interested in participating in. The official rules are on the page itself, along with a comment box for you to offer suggestions, etc. I hope you all are interested, and hope to see you over there! 


	9. Listen, My Children

"Anne, could you do me a massive favor?"

I look up from my cereal bowl, blinking blearily up at my sister, immaculate in her bathrobe and ponytail at seven in the morning.

"What's up?" Her smile's charming, but there's something coming at me.

"Charles has a lunch with some coworkers today, and I'm going as well, but we can't take Charlie. Do you mind watching him today?"

I put my spoon down. "For how long?"

"Well, the lunch is in New York, so just until, oh, nine tonight?"

"New York."

"Yeah."

"You're going to drive five hours for a company picnic, then drive five hours back?"

"That's right, Anne."

"So why can't you take Charlie to this?"

"I told you: it's a business lunch."

"Charles is taking you, and it's not exactly for business. You're barbequing with the others partners in the firm, right?"

"I'm sure it'll be something a little nicer than barbequing, Anne."

"And I'm just as sure that the other partners will be including their children, Mary. Hell, they'll probably parade them out front in their polos and Jimmy Choos—"

"Jimmy Choo doesn't make children's shoes—"

"Whatever. I've been watching Charlie for almost two weeks straight—"

"When you weren't hanging out with Lou and Hen, watching them slobber over Ahmir Wentworth like a pair of—"

"And I think it might be good if you spent some time with him for awhile—"

"Though I have to admit he's a lot better than that Chris Hayter. Pathetically bad match if you ask me—"

"Mary!"

"What?"

"I think you should take Charlie with you to New York. Give him some time to hang out with you and Charles. He misses the two of you, and I can feel he's getting really tired of having to keep off his ankle. Please, just—just take him with you."

"Anne. I have enough to handle right now as it is. I have to look perfect for this party, and we're in a financial situation right now which I'm _sure _Charles hasn't done anything about yet. Not that I begrudge his father his retirement money, but he has quite a bit of it that he's never going to spend because they can't travel. All in all, with everything else I have to think about, _and _needing to impress the other partners and their stupid wives, I can't worry about Charlie, too. Don't you see?" She smiles wheedlingly at me, and I can feel myself crumbling. For Charlie, it's either stay here and be bored or go to the barbeque and be in competition with his mother for the attention of the other adults. And it's not exactly like he can play with the kids at the moment.

Besides, I can see where this is going if I keep up my argument. Either way, I'm going to lose; it's just quicker to lose this way. And I don't lose my dignity in the bargain. I don't have the energy to fight with her.

When I've agreed and poured myself a second cup of coffee, Charles comes blustering in. He's all set for the day, sleeves rolled back to his upper forearm, khakis slung casually yet professionally around his waist. He's ready for the day. One look at Mary tells him she's not. They exchange a few words, and she exits in a huff to perfect her appearance for the partners and their stupid wives. Charles pulls out a chair and sits across from me, pouring himself coffee, too, careful not to get any on his crisp white shirt.

" 'Morning, Anne. Sleep well?" he smiles his school boy smile when I shake my head sleepily.

"Not enough," I say, "and yourself?"

"The same, I'm afraid. Did Mary ask you if—"

"Uh huh."

"And is it—"

"Uh huh."

"Great. That's great." He pretends to look at the back of the cereal box, solving the simple word puzzle splayed across cartoon marshmallow bats. "Anne—how are you doing?"

I hesitate, watching him. Then I smile a little. "I'm fine, Charles. Better now. Thanks for asking."

"No, seriously. I'm not interested in the answers you give Mary, if she ever thinks to ask. You're looking way too thin, and you seem sad, you hardly ever speak, and when you do it's monosyllabic at best. You're the person we all turn to for support, but if you need help, if you need someone to talk to—just know that I'm here for you." His hand comes down to cover mine. I look up at him in alarm. Sincere concern is written plainly across his face. "I'll always be here for you."

I pull my hand away as Mary enters the room, and I turn to look at Count Chocula as they make their leave. I get the feeling that Charles is watching at me, but I don't look up. I call out a cursory goodbye as they leave, and when the door is closed behind them, and after the car is out of the driveway, I lean back in my chair, my head hanging back, staring at the ceiling.

Why is this happening? As if things aren't fucked up enough without Charles coming on to me. As if I didn't have enough to deal with. Maybe I shouldn't have started gaining weight. Maybe that was what reminded him that he used to be attracted to me. Maybe it didn't mean what I think it means. Maybe it's friend to friend.

Maybe not.

God damn it. God damn it. God damn it. This is the last thing I need.

And what the hell is Mary doing abandoning Charlie like this? I'm not his nursemaid, I'm not his baby sitter. And I am not her wet nurse. I had this plan when I came here, this great master plan that I was going to sweep in and make everything better in the family. But I've screwed that up, and now if I leave, I get the feeling the whole dynamic will Jenga itself to the ground.

Not again. Not again. I'm not going to stay just because I feel guilty about what might happen if I leave. And with Ahmir here, the sooner I leave, the better. I've been way too distracted by him to notice anything else, which is probably where my major screw up came from. Distracted by Ahmir Wentworth. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

I should leave.

But then I think of Charlie, alone in this house, or packed off to some ambivalent day care with too much money and not enough talent. He already has no friends his age, I'd rather he have at least one of any age.

No, I can't leave. Not yet.

I close my hands, bringing my head back in line with my body, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

This is getting real old.

* * *

Charlie is bored. With a capital B. We've been watching Blue's Clues for an hour, a place we've disintegrated to after the Great Card House Disaster and the epic Parcheesi Meltdown of '07. The whole day has been a disaster. Mary gave me strict instructions to not let him run around, but I wouldn't have listened if he hadn't been limping around all day. Apparantly his sprained ankle is more serious than I thought two weeks ago. Of course, it probably doesn't help that he's been doing his best to break both his ankles ever since he fell.

So now we're stuck indoors on an ugly, rainy day, watching Joe open his mail. I'm sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and Charlie is taking the opportunity to get out his frustration by kneeing me periodically in the back of the head. I'm about ready to turn around and throttle him when I hear the doorbell ring.

I get up and walk to the door, battling down my annoyance with the whole day. When the door opens, a rush of chilly, wet air sweeps in the door, and in front of it stands Ahmir.

I gape at him. He gapes at me. I'm the first to speak, though, which I guess is supposed to be a victory.

"Hi."

Brilliantly done. Try again.

"Do you need something?"

Not good, you idiot. Now you sound like an uber bitch.

No time to try again, though. He shoves his hands into his pockets and says, "Yeah, I'm actually looking for Lou and Hen. Mrs Musgrove said they'd be here."

Confused, I frown, then step by and let him inside. His jacket is wet, and I offer to take it automatically, and just as automatically he hands it to me. "They're not here right now. They were planning on stopping by in a little, though. I think they've gone to the mall for awhile. And the weather's probably not helping."

"Oh." I've just hung up his jacket, but now it seems more than obvious that he'd rather put it back on and wait outside in the rain for the girls.

There's a little silence that seems to stretch into an eternity. I have absolutely no idea of what to say to him. I can't be nice to him, I can't be snappish. I can't explain anything.

So instead, I say, "You can wait here if you want. They shouldn't be long." I'm suddenly very conscious of my pj boxers and tank top. I turn and walk into the living room to cover my blush. Charlie is systematically shredding an entire roll of paper towels.

"Charlie! Stop it!" I take it away from him, giving him a _look_. There are pieces of towel all over the place, and I get down on my hands and knees to pick them up. I'm distractedly berating Charlie for wasting the earth's resources, when I hear, "Here, let me help you."

I whip my head over my shoulder to see Ahmir down on the floor with me, picking up the little piece of paper with me. I sit back on my heels, and diffidently hold out my hand to him. He drops what he's collected into my palm. Our hands don't touch.

"Thanks." I place his small pile with the one I've already made on coffee table. I'm unsure of where to go now. Should I wait for him to get up before I move? Should I get up now, and not send the message that I want to spend any extended time within a one-mile radius of him? I go to smooth down my pants, which is my nervous habit, when I realize that I don't actually have long pants on, and that that motion would end up with my rubbing my upper thighs. I quickly abort that mission.

"How's he doing?" Ahmir's indicating Charlie, who's now flipping through channels sullenly, turning up the volume to a near-deafening experience.

I roll my eyes, " Bored. Sulky." I find an excuse to get up when Charlie flings the remote across the room. I retrieve the remote, locate the batteries, which have fallen out and scattered, and click the TV off.

"Anne! I was watching that!"

I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. "Really? Because it looked more like you were abusing the environment and your own personal belongings to me."

"I'm boooooored! You don't let me have any fun!"

"Umm, false, sonny jim. _You _don't let you have any fun. Your ankle would be fine now if you didn't feel like you needed to run marathons every day just to prove you can, which, by the way, you _can't_. Then you ripped the cards in half and flung the Parcheesi dice behind the radiator, so we can't play any games. Harry Potter bores you, which is weird, because you've been begging me to read to you for days, and now you've almost broken the remote. No more TV for you." I put the remote on top of the entertainment cabinet, propping my hands on my hips and watching his face melt.

"Noooo! I want to watch it!!! I'm sorry, I won't do it again."

"Sorry, too late."

"Anne. I promise. I'll pinkie swear. Just let me watch it!"

"Nope, sorry. If you're going to treat your belongings like that, then no." I feel like a bitch, but he needs it. He needs to be punished if he's ever going to learn anything about boundaries. I feel like a double bitch because Ahmir's watching me discipline an injured three-year-old. Charlie opens his mouth wide to retort, the shadow of future meltdown tears in his face, when the doorbell rings.

"Oh for the love—what now?" I grumble, going to the door again. This time when I pull it open, I find Chris Hayter on the front step, shaking water out of his hair.

I freeze. Ahmir's here for the girls, and Chris is here for Hen. This could be very, very bad.

"Chris, hi."

_Hi _seems to be the word of the day.

"Hi. I'm looking for Hen. Her mom said she might be here." He looks a little upset, and I can guess that Hen hasn't been answering her phone. _Jeez, Hen. Way to be._

"She's actually not. She and Lou are on a retail-therapy deal today. But they should be here soon. Do—" I almost stop myself from inviting him in, but decide that would be rude, "do you want to come in and wait for her?" I step out of the way and he enters. We do the same coat dance Ahmir and I did only minutes ago, and I lead him into the living room, where Charlie is poised to spring on the remote.

"Up-up-up, get back on that couch, mister," I say, pointing my finger accusingly at the kid. He reaches out to take the remote anyway, then sees my face. He snatches his hand back, but props his hands on his hips like my mirror image.

"Chris, I believe you've met Ahmir Wentworth?" I say, not taking my eyes off my charge, wishing that I could make a more strategic introduction. "He's waiting for Lou. I don't want to see you disobey me again, do you understand?" I direct at Charlie. "You're being punished for a reason."

"For a _stupid _reason."

"Maybe. But that's my business. And your mom's not going to be happy if she comes home to discover the whole house smashed up because you're bored."

"Then find something for me to do, stupid!"

"Hey," Chris breaks in, "listen to your aunt, bud." I look over at them, standing within six feet of each other, watching this episode with interest. I look quickly away from Ahmir's dark eyes. I wonder briefly if he's taking this as further evidence of my heartlessness.

"No thanks, _bud_," Charlie snarks, sounding a lot like Mary did when she was younger.

"Hey, that's enough, you. If you don't want a time-out, you'd better stop insulting people. It's no one else's fault that you don't want to do anything."

"I _do _want to do something! I want to go outside, but _you _won't let me out!"

"Only because I don't want you to join the dinosaurs and unicorns!"

"What?"

"Trust me, Charlie," says Ahmir, sitting down on the couch and stretching out, "you don't want to be outside right now."

"How would _you _know?" Charlie says petulantly. I'm about to reprimand him when Ahmir follows through with, " 'Cause I've played whole soccer games when the weather was like this. It's no fun. I remember, there was this one time in Spain when it was pouring so much, I couldn't see in front of my face, like Harry couldn't in The Prisoner of Azkaban, do you remember that? Well, it was crazy, and of course we didn't have that spell that repels water—"

"Impervius—" I put in.

"—So it was almost impossible to see. And of course it was Spain, and calling a match because of the weather is like a cardinal sin, so we kept playing…" He trails off, looking away from the rapt three-year-old. There is a silence.

"Then what?" Charlie demands, his eyes wide with excitement.

"What? Oh, you're still interested in this story? I thought you just wanted to go outside and play."

I'm grinning. I can't help it. Ahmir has Charlie eating out of his hand and loving it. He was always really good with kids. Charlie flings himself down none too gently next to Ahmir on the couch, and again urges Ahmir on to finish the story. I duck my head to hide my smile, but I catch a glimpse of Ahmir looking at me, so I turn to the window and look out to hide it. It's the first time I've smiled this much in a long time.

Chris has sat down in the armchair, and is apparently relaxed, though I don't know what will happen when Hen walks through the door. He deserves better than this, I think. He seems like he would be good for Hen, no matter what Mary has to say about mechanics and their ineligibility for the Musgrove sisters.

Ahmir finished his story, then jumps immediately into another one, this time including Chris in the conversation. It's definitely a guy sort of conversation, and they both get into it, which makes me smile again, leaning on the window sill. They're just getting to the part about how cool Hot Wheels used to be when they were kids when the door flies open and Hen and Lou get blown into the house, carrying shopping bags and a soaking umbrella. All three boys look up, distracted, and if Hen feels any surprise about Chris's being here, she doesn't show it. Instead, she greets him warmly and shyly, throwing only a cursory glance at Ahmir. I think this reassures Chris, because he moves over in his chair to make room for her.

"Hey Anne, sorry we're later than we said," gushes Lou, stripping off her wet hoodie to reveal a wet white t-shirt that I hope to God isn't intentional. "We got carried away at the mall. And we got some stuff for you, too, but if you don't like it, it's no big deal, you can come with us next time, too." She barely stops for breath.

_This _is the Lou I know, the one who gets excited and talks so fast she trips over her own words and is barely understandable. This is the real Lou, not the one from two nights ago, who sold her own sister downriver for a guy who doesn't even like her the way she likes him.

Because it's obvious to me that she's infatuated. And while he enjoys the attention, enjoys her company, and is obviously fond of her, I don't see the same feelings in him that I do in her.

At least, I hope I don't.

I reach out to take the bag Lou is holding out to me, and Lou sits down on the other side of Charlie, hugging him and asking about his day. I walk around the back of the couch on the pretense of going into the kitchen, but I stop to pick up the ripped up paper towel off the coffee table, which puts me in just the right position to whisper something to Ahmir.

"Thank you."

I don't look him in the eye, but his head whips around, and I can feel he's studying me. _Steady on, old girl. Don't crack. _I turn my back and walk into the kitchen, and sit for a moment, collecting my thoughts and smiling at the rain like an idiot.


	10. Finds Its Place

Breakfast again. This time, Mary and Charles are sitting next to me, munching dry toast (Mary), or wolfing down eggs and bacon (Charles). It's Sunday morning, week four.

I play with my spoon. Charles's bacon smells good, but I know the kind of look I'll get if I make myself some, that _It's going to be on your hips forever, you cow,_ kind of look that women give other women who dare to eat what the others deny themselves. So I stick to cereal.

Mary and Charles don't eat in silence. Even when not speaking, they make _noise_, as if they need to fill up the gaps in the conversation with something. Every now and then, Mary will make a nonverbal sound or other, proving that she is, in fact, still there, and Charles clearly disregards the preference society has for people who chew with their mouths closed. There is no peace at the Musgrove breakfast table.

Today, though, they do have a topic of conversation. And it centers, as all things have done for the past month, around Ahmir Wentworth, ideal catch #1.

"No, no, no, it's not Louisa, Charles. It's obvious he has a thing for Henrietta," Mary is smiling triumphantly, chewing her toast with an air of self-satisfaction way out of proportion with her involvement in this.

"Hen? But she has Chris, for God's sake! And Ahmir wouldn't step in when two people are perfect for each other like that, he's too—"

"Perfect? You think Chris Hayter is perfect for Hen? A _mechanic_?"

"I don't care what his job is. He's a good guy, he loves my sister, and he's successful at what he does. You wouldn't believe the profit there is in cars these days. And what's more, she loves him, too. Ahmir's just been a distraction, that's all."

"Well, she should stay distracted, then. Ahmir's worth ten of Chris. Chris isn't even in the same social group as her."

"If he's dating her, I beg to differ. And anyway, why are you being so elitist about this?"

"_Elitist?_ I'm just looking out for Hen. You do know the divorce rate in the middle class, don't you?"

"Oh, stop. Ahmir and Lou are obviously fond of each other. She's the one he sits next to, she's the one who makes him laugh. I know he _likes _Hen, but she's not Lou, Mary," there's a silence, punctuated by a small noise from Mary and her aggressive bite into a bit of whole grain semolina. Charles turns to me, and says, "What do you think, Anne? You're with them more often than we are."

"Which one is he in love with?" Mary asks eagerly, hoping for a good dose of nepotism. I look at them, stricken silent. This is one question I don't want to answer.

"I—I really can't—I don't know," I finish lamely, scooping Cheerios into my mouth to cover my completely inadequate answer.

It's not enough to distract them, and they would press me, but the sound of two people talking outside makes Mary's head swivel around violently. Hen and Lou's faces are just visible through the kitchen window, and they seem to be deep in conversation. Before I can say anything to stop her, Mary rushes to the window over the sink, obviously hoping to catch a few words of the girls' private discussion. When that proves fruitless, and Lou and Hen head off to whatever their destination is, Mary's voice calls them back.

"Hello! Where are you two headed?" The girls stop in their tracks for a moment, then pivot to face the window. Hen looks at a loss for an explanation, but Lou calls back, "We're going for a walk, Mary."

"Oh, great! I was just saying I'd like to go for a walk today."

_Liar_.

"Oh…" Lou trails off, clearly not expecting Mary to want to come along. "Well, it's a long walk, Mary, and we wouldn't want you to get tired halfway through—"

"Aren't you sick, Mary?" Hen asks, trying to salvage the situation.

"Of course not, I'm fine! Why does everyone assume I can't do anything? I'd love to go on a long walk with you."

"This is a _very_ long walk," Lou insists, and if Mary had any sense or grace, I think bitterly, she'd damn well take the hint.

_Uncharitable. Stop. _

"Come in for a few minutes, and we'll get ready and join you, won't we?" She turns away from the window, leaving Lou and Hen to exchange a few choice, hushed words before trudging inside like condemned prisoners.

"You do know I was going to play golf with Ahmir today?" Charles says indignantly. The girls look at him hopefully, though the hope has less to do with the promise of Ahmir's company than it does with the possibility of Mary releasing her social chokehold.

But Mary's decided she wants to walk, and so she puts her hands on her slim hips and gives her husband a mild stare that promises a much more vehement reaction if he dares to argue with her. "You can play later. This way we'll all get to spend time together. Right?"

She manages to instill those words with as much guile as possible, while still being completely unshakeable in her convictions. If she were sloppy, she'd pout. But she's not sloppy; she has this down to an artform. We all stand in the kitchen, watching her work and trying to come up with polite and compelling reasons not to follow what she wants to the T.

She wins. We all knew she would.

* * *

"Wonderful day, don't you think?" Mary stretches her arms open to the sky as if she wants to soak up as much sun as possible, regardless of the three or four layers of one-hundred-dollar SPF 30 cream covering every inch of her visible skin. She's so exuberant that I can't help but smile. It's not often she gets to be the dictator of social events, and everything is working out the way she wants it to.

Well, not necessarily. I steal another glance at Ahmir and Lou walking side by side up at the front. It should be obvious by now that Lou and Ahmir are more of a viable couple than Hen and Ahmir are. And it's looking more and more like they _will _be one as well.

I try hard not to dwell on it, or think badly of it. He has every right to move on with his life, to date whoever he wants. But that doesn't stop the heaviness pressing on my shoulders, making my spine bend, pulling my face down with it. It doesn't stop the fact that I'm still in love with him.

And nor should it, because it has nothing to do with me. His new life has nothing to do with me at all. He happened to meet Lou here, but that doesn't mean it was any kind of revenge to me. That's the kind of thinking that Mary would use, but not everything is about me. _Remember that, you_. Whatever happens in his life from now on is his business. I didn't have to like it, and I didn't have to get over him, but I'd have to accept it.

If only I could be sure that he likes her. I've seen him in love before, and it was completely different from this sort of lazy, charming companionship. More intense, more joyful, more—and anyway, they hadn't kissed yet. At least in public. And they didn't go anywhere together without Hen or Charles or Mr Musgrove. They hadn't been on a real date yet. Which could mean they're taking it slow, or that something else is going on.

Or that I'm fishing for hope where there isn't any. It would be better for everyone to just forget it all. To stop obsessing. To go to Bath with Dad and Elizabeth and get a job and forget him. To try to forget him.

But I'm not going to leave yet. I'm holding on, stupidly, masochistically, to some shred of hope that things will change, and I'll get to apologize, and we'll get to try again. Pluss, being around him again makes me feel happier than I have in a long time. It hardly matters that we don't speak to each other directly, or look at each other at the same time. Hearing the way his voice rumbles in his chest, seeing the way the light shines off his face, getting a glimpse of the way his muscles in his back join together under his shirt, watching the way he watches things, feeling the happiness that comes from being so close to someone so alive, makes me want to frisk like a puppy or tell jokes in silly voices or run for no reason: things I haven't done since the first time. No matter how much it hurts me that he's moving on, or moved on, I still have that.

The walking party has divided into two very separate groups. The three of them, Hen and Lou and Ahmir, up front, leading the way to what I think is a very definite location. Following about twenty yards are the three of us, Mary and Charles and I. The two of them are walking in front of me, hands linked, fingers interlocked, which, I think, is the sense of Mary's joy as well. I follow a little behind them, not in the mood for an expedition, tired from lack of sleep, and trying not to be jealous of my sister. Not that I'm jealous of her in Charles' respect, but I feel twinges of envy at her having someone when I don't. To be able to and completely justified in walking hand in hand with someone. I'm jealous of that.

_Jesus, you're moody today_. I roll my eyes at my own stupidity, feeling foolish at feeling sorry for myself on such a nice day. _You're like a thirteen-year-old girl at a dance, sobbing on the staircase and ruining the fun for everyone else. _

Lou was right, the walk_is _very long, and soon I can feel my muscles starting to protest their involvement in this little scheme. I haven't really exercised in a long time, and it's quickly becoming obvious. Dammit.

We turn corner after corner, and soon we're cutting across a park in a decidedly more middle class area of town. I can feel Mary's delight slipping a little, and I realize why Lou and Hen didn't want Mary coming in the first place. We're going to Chris's house.

Mary realizes this, too, just behind a little stand of young trees, and she stops abruptly. Without even realizing her actions, so do Hen and Lou and Ahmir.

"Oh look, there's Chris Hayter's house," says Lou, completely aware of how false she sounds. "We should go visit him." She starts to the house with Hen in tow, Ahmir lingering uncertainly, clearly aware that his presence in Chris's house is problematic.

"I don't think you should go," Mary calls, a little shrilly. Both the girls turn, Lou with a stubborn look on her face that doesn't bode well, Hen with an uncertain one.

"Why not, Mary?" Charles asks, dropping her hand. He's looking a little stern, as if he's dreading having to repeat this morning's conversation and fully committed to avoiding it at all costs.

"I—I just don't think we should go in," Mary finishes weakly.

"You don't have to," Lou shoots back.

"I don't think any of us should go in. It's not—I don't want any of us to go there." She can't finish her thought without being elitist, but it's so obvious what she means that she says anyway, "I don't think you should spend your time with that man, Hen. Come on, we're going back." She holds her hand out imperiously to Hen, who, after a moment of hesitation leaves Lou and takes it.

"Mary—" I start, shocked at her lack of grace.

"I think we should all go back home now."

"You're being ridiculous!" Charles booms, upset that someone he was so happy with ten minutes ago has now ruined their moment. "It's insanely rude of you to be this shallow."

I look at Ahmir, and while he doesn't react or say anything, I can tell he's less than impressed, and it mortifies me beyond belief.

Lou rushes after Mary and a faltering Hen, grabbing Hen's free left hand, pulling her roughly away from Mary, bringing her to Charles. "Why don't you bring her to meet Chris? The rest of us can stay here for the time being. And I'm sure Ahmir can protect us from any peasant uprising that might happen in the next half hour or so."

I wanted to cheer, and alternately die of mortification. In the end, I turn away from the group, my back to Hen and Charles, disappearing behind the trees. I don't want to see everyone exchanging glances and being awkwardly impolite to each other.

There's a gazebo in the center of the park. I walk toward it, and soon enough, Mary is walking next to me. Not what I'd been hoping for, but I suppose it's better than being left alone with my thoughts at the moment.

"You'd think I'd committed a capital offence," Mary grumbles, glancing over her shoulder at where I assume Ahmir and Lou are glaring darkly at our retreating figures. I don't look back with her. "I just want to be sure that Hen isn't getting into something she'll regret. I mean…he _isn't _like us. He could be using her, and he won't fit in with everyone else she knows. That's something to think about, I think."

I glance at her from the corner of my eyes. It _is _possible that she really is thinking about Hen's well-being. It's very possible, in fact.

"It's not your decision to make, Mary. Chris is a good guy, and she's happy with him. Besides, it's not like he's homeless or impoverished. He does pretty well for himself."

"Things like this rarely work out. He'll resent her for her money, of she'll be upset that he can't get along with her friends. I'm not crazy to want her to go out with some nice boy she meets at college. Someone more like us."

"Chris is a good man who loves her. You should meet him officially. You'd understand then. And it's true he does have his insecurities, but I think they're going to be worked out today. And I think you could stand to be a little less self-righteous about it. It's not your life. Let her live it the way she wants to, and stay out of it." I say it quietly, knowing if I raise my voice the entire conversation will go to hell in about 2.5 seconds.

"I'm not being self-righteous, Anne! I'm being a good sister-in-law, and it's incredibly mean of you to insult me for trying to help."

"I'm not insulting you, Mary, I'm trying to get you to understand that there are things that are, and should be, outside your influence. It's good that you care about Hen and her choice of boyfriend, but the concern would probably be better focused on how he treats her and how they get along together than how much money he has. We've known our share of rich bastards, right?"

She wants to argue more, but I think I've silenced her for a little longer. We reach the gazebo, and I sit on the steps, my beaten red sneakers duck-toed on the cement ground-level step. She sits next to me, groaning as her supposedly creaky joints act up.

"Well, I still don't understand why every treated me like I'm public enemy number one. It's not like I was saying it just to be mean."

"That probably made it worse. You said it because you meant it. It makes you honest, but it doesn't always make you popular."

"So I should just lie about how I feel?"

"No, of course not. But—you have—you've got the same opinions about things that you did ten years ago. I don't feel like you've stopped to really think in all that time, not really, not about what you feel and why you feel it. So when you come up with something like that, it's not you talking, it's the you from ten years ago, the fifteen-year-old you. I think you should let yourself grow up a little."

"And do what? Sit around like you all day and not talk? Just stare into space, thinking? I have things to do, Anne, _un_like you, and places to be and people to talk to you, _un_like you. I have a kid to raise and a family to run—"

"And a slew of convenient excuses."

"You know what, I think I'd better sit where you are, the sun's getting in my eyes." She's challenging me, and I don't feel like fighting with her. Plus, I'm frustrated with her, and I'd honestly rather not speak to her for one more moment. I get up quickly, letting her slide to where I am, and stalk off to find a corner of the park not infected with anger or stupidity.

The one I find is not one in which I am particularly welcome. There is a little sitting area near the playground, almost hidden by huge old pine trees. I almost walk right into the middle of Ahmir and Lou's conversation, but catch myself in time, hoping that they don't notice me, hoping that I walking quietly, even as furious as I am.

There's no need to worry. They're sitting on a bench, legs crossed, a series of pine cones in between them, and they're talking loudly enough for me to hear everything. I shouldn't stay, I shouldn't listen. But I can't help it. Or, rather, I don't want to correct my mistake. I don't want to give them privacy. I want to know what they say to each other when they're alone. I want to torture myself a little bit more.

"…Well, she does make me angry sometimes, though. Like today. I had to bully her to come here and work things out with Chris."

"You think she'd have gone back with Mary if you hadn't stopped her?"

"Yeah. It's sad, really. She's so intelligent, but she wants to be liked all the time, so she gives in to easily. I'll never be like that."

"Stubborn?"

"Anne says I'm made of obstinateness and water."

"Obstinateness. Good word."

"I know. But it's true. Once I've made up my mind, you can't change it. Not me."

"So Mary's shrieking couldn't affect you?"

"Nope, the words bounce right off. Like in the _Phantom Tollbooth_." He chuckles, and there's the faint _click_ of a pinecone hitting the bricks.

"I like Mary fine, actually," Lou says after a little pause. "She likes us a lot, and I know she wants us to be best girlfriends or whatever, but she annoys me sometimes with her bullshit. She's not all bad, but Hen and I both wish Charles was with Anne instead. I know Mummy and Dad wish so too."

_No. Oh, no._

"Anne?" The question is immediate. "Charles used to be with Anne?"

"No, no, they were never together. Not like a couple. No, Charles met Anne in college before she dropped out, and they were really good friends. That's how we met her. And he was insane about her for a long time, asked her out a couple times, told her how he felt. She was always decent about it, but she never even gave him a chance. Wouldn't go out with him. Turned him down flat. Their friendship got weird, and he had already met Mary. Hen and I think it was on the rebound that everything happened."

"Everything?"

_Stop, oh please stop._ I want to plug up my ears, but I know what's coming, and I'm unreasonable angry at Lou for bringing it up in the first place.

"Oh, you don't know. Shit. Well, Mary got pregnant. That's why they're together. He didn't have to marry her, but he thought it was the right thing to do, and they seem happy together, you know, when she's not breaking glass with her vocal chords. He loves her, which is crazy, but good, I _guess_, since they're _married_," the laugh creeps into her voice. "You know, it's a nice touch when you love the person you're married to."

"Do you know why Anne said no to him?"

"No, that's the weird thing. I mean, it's not like she had someone else on the burner or something. I've never heard of her going out with anyone, or having a boyfriend. Hen thinks it's because she didn't see him like that, and didn't want to encourage anything that might end badly and ruin the friendship. Mummy thinks it's because Anne's friend Rochelle didn't like Charles and told her not to give him a chance."

"And what do you think?" In spite of myself, I lean in. I want to know what other people think of me.

"I don't really know. We all know Rochelle, and she's nice, but crazy controlling. She could talk Anne into not dating him. But it's not like Anne and Charles are a match made in heaven anyway. She's not the average-joe kind of girl. And I don't think Rochelle would drive away every single boyfriend or prospect Anne could have. I don't know. I think Anne's capable of making decisions for herself, even if she doesn't always seem like it. I know she seems meek and everything, and she is, but when I'm not mad at her for buckling under, I can see that she's just working a different side of it. Like Mary. Mary needs someone to take her down a peg, but no one could. No one until Anne, and all she does is wait for the right time, say one or two choice words, and _boom_. She's too cool to be celibate for five years. I dunno."

I don't stay to listen to what Ahmir has to say. I turn on my heel and take the long way to the playground, where I sit next to the slide and lean my head back against the uber-safe, soulless blue plastic, and try to think about nothing at all, breathing deeply to calm my quickly beating heart.

When Hen and Charles return to us, a good forty minutes later, they bring Chris with them, his fingers interwoven with Hen's, and a big smile on his handsome face. Lou and Ahmir are the first to greet them, and I see, for a second, the couples as they will be. Hen and Chris, Lou and Ahmir. Charles and Mary.

We head back the way we came, the happy younger couples up front, talking animatedly, becoming friends all over again. I walk in the middle this time, between them and Mary and Charles. They're talking in quieter voices than the others, but I know they're hashing out their disagreement, and I know they'll be holding hands at the end of the walk.

I don't know why it bothers me that Lou talked about my history with Charles, or why it would bother me to see Mary and Charles hold hands again. It's not like I'm in love with Charles, or that I could have been. It's not like I regret turning him down. It's more like that was my last real possibility, and now I see myself as Lou sees me: the spinster sister, inexplicably lonely, lonely by choice. And a fear grips me, that I'll be alone like this forever. For a second, longer than any hour I've ever lived, time stretches out for me, and I see me life, just like this, a life of which I've already lived a quarter, and accomplished nothing, and for a heart-pounding moment, the fear of death that I used to feel after my mother died returns. Only I never imagined the absolute desolation of dying alone. And now I do, it's hard to think of anything else. I take deep breaths, smoothing my hands down the front of my jeans, trying to get my heart to slow down and my eyes to stop watering.

The obvious answer to my fear is to find someone else. I need to let myself move on, find someone different. And it won't be the same, not the way it was with us, but that's the point. It's supposed to be different the second time around. After all, how many people really marry the first person they fall in love with? It's not that there's no one else out there, I reason, it's just that you haven't let yourself look.

It doesn't make me feel any better.

A car pulls up next to the big group, and the passenger window rolls down to reveal Adam's smiling face. "Cap! Whatcha doing?"

"On a walk, man," Ahmir says, grinning from ear, walking across the little strip of grass between sidewalk and street to shake Adam's hand and smile at his sister behind the wheel.

"Long way from the Musgrove's. Anyone want a ride? We've only got enough room for one, since we just went shopping and Nadya decided she wants to single-handedly keep the American economy afloat—"

Nadya says a few choice words to him that I can't hear, but her brother chuckles.

"Anyone want a ride?" Ahmir looks at his group, who shake their heads happily. Then he looks at me, and something in his face changes. I realize belatedly that I must still have tears in my eyes, or a remnant of the terror, and I don't try to change it. Ahmir leans down to say something quietly to Adam, who turns in my direction and says, "How about you, Anne? You look a little tired, and you're not crazy like everyone else. Want a ride?"

I could say no. But I don't. Instead, I smile and nod. "That would be good, thanks."

"Well, hop in then. I hope you don't mind sharing space with the Crate & Barrel warehouse." I chuckle in spite of myself and make my way to the car door, only to see that it's already opened. Ahmir stands in front of me, not looking at me, holding the door handle. I smile for just a second, glad of the gesture. I have to admit, I like it when people hold open doors for me. "Thank you." I turn to climb in, and feel a shock down my spine when I feel a hand at the small of my back as get it. As soon as I'm situated, I look up at him, catching his eyes for a second before he shuts the door decisively and turns away. His left hand, the one that found its old place at the base of my spine, is shoved into his pocket, along with its brother. The group waves us off, and I turn away from him as we pull away from the curb. That was the first time we've touched in five years, and I wonder if it felt as electrifying for him as it did for me.

The Crofts resume their companionable conversation, and I make efforts to contribute. We talk about the weather, soccer, cartoon stickers—the little things that can fill up ten minutes. I find myself wondering, for a brief anti-feminist moment, why Adam isn't driving the car. Charles always drive when he and Mary go anywhere. I don't remember any time when my dad ever let my mother or me drive. But Adam sits in the passenger seat, totally relaxed, and seemingly completely sure in his masculinity as his wife maneuvers the streets and pulls into my driveway.

That's nice, I think lazily as I get out of the car and say my goodbyes. That's the kind of relationship I want, the kind of marriage I want. I want someone who won't get insane over the small things, who'll let me be a partner in crime, who won't try to be right, or strong, or perfect all the time. I want someone who won't care if I drive the car or earn more money or like violent movies. I want someone who won't care if I don't do any of those things. I want a friend, and a lover, and a compatriot, for lack of a better word. I hadn't thought it was possible, really. Not after seeing my parents. But it is possible. Nadya and Adam prove it. It is possible to be all of those things, and to have all those things in someone else. I just had to find it.

Again.

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Galatea for her excellent pep-talks and her marvelous copy-and-paste skills. Begging tends to work. I know this isn't in time for Christmas, but Happy New Year instead! And, as always, read and review.


	11. White Gravel and Gray Houses

"_Ahmir Wentworth?" _Rochelle's voice is so shrill that my cell phone speakers crackle. I can only imagine what she would be doing if she were sitting next to me instead of in Oahu. I am suddenly very thankful for Hawaii.

"Yep." Deciding it's safe, I take a moment to adjust my bag on my shoulder, juggling my coffee cup in my hand and pressing my phone between my cheek and shoulder. I am right; Rochelle is too stunned to speak for the time being. By the time she's ready, I am off down the street and away from the coffee shop. The downtown area is too cutesy, but it makes for good walking, and I don't want to drive home on my cell phone.

"But…um…_what?_"

"Are you always this articulate?" I laugh, taking a swig of burning hot coffee and only just managing to not swear at the top of my lungs as it sears the roof of my mouth.

"But _how_? And _why_? And what the hell have you been _doing_?"

"Nadya lives here now. He came to see her, so that's the why. As for the how, I'm pretty sure that's easy. And I haven't been doing much. Just babysitting Charlie and hanging out with Lou and Hen."

"Who are also spending time with Ahmir Wentworth."

"Yep."

"Jesus, Anne! Awkward, much?"

"You have no idea," I say, taking another, more careful, sip. Her amazement, more than just being funny, is really validating for me. And I'm having more fun than I should telling her about it.

"How can you two spend time with each other?"

"Well, it's remarkably easy, since we pretend not to know each other. At all. Also, we don't speak to each other."

"Your idea or his?"

"His. I think. Maybe ours. Not sure. " This is less fun. I drink more coffee to cover up what I feel to be an awkward, telling silence.

"Are you okay?" She sounds legitimately concerned, and I immediately feel bad for thinking she was indifferent.

"I mean…I guess so. Actually, no, I am okay. Nothing's really wrong, it's just really strange, you know? And it's not like anything's actually going to happen, it's just weird seeing him here."

"Do you need anything? Do you want me to come back? I can leave whenever, you know—"

"No, I'm okay, Rochelle. Really. I'll call you if I need anything."

"Promise?"

Even as I say the words, though, I know I won't. It's my problem, and I'm starting to realize just how little I need to share with her. But I still feel bad for lying to her. This is probably the first lie I've ever told her. Hopefully, it will be the last. But I doubt it.

When I get back to the house, Lou and Hen and Ahmir are playing basketball on the driveway. I'm jittery from the coffee, but otherwise fine, and it's with surprising ease that I walk up to all of them with a general smile. Ahmir has the ball, and is palming it with one hand. I had forgotten he could do that.

"Who's winning?"

"Me, so far," Hen says a little smugly. "I'm just H. Ahmir is a H-O, and Lou's a big old H-O-R. Wanna play?" Lou glances at her, and for a second I think I see annoyance there. But I'm probably wrong about that.

I shrug. "I really suck at this game. And I'm entering halfway through."

"Yeah, but if you suck, you'll lose anyway, so it really doesn't matter, right?"

I grin. "Right." I strip my jacket off and lay it on the still-warm hood of my car. The air is crisp, but I still have a sweatshirt on, and I want to at least give myself the chance of not being completely demolished. I look around the little group, from one to another, and I manage to make eye contact with everyone. It's actually kind of exciting. "So, where do we start?"

We play H-O-R-S-E for awhile. I do not lose, but I come mighty close. Next, we play a half-hearted round of Shoot-til-you-miss, which is confounded by the fact that Hen and Ahmir have skills and Lou and I clearly do not, and games of Ahmir-and-Hen-have-the-ball are less entertaining for the masses. I'm about to throw in the towel completely, when Hen says, "Are you coming with us to Lyme?"

I frown, and focus for a second on making a jump shot, which turns into a pathetic air ball. Lou makes a buzzer sound behind me as I turn to squint up at Hen.

"Lyme?"

"Yeah! Didn't Mary tell you?"

"First time I've heard of it," I say, trying exceptionally hard to not sound in any way offended by this fact. I'm actually not offended—there are a lot of things that get decided with me out of the room, and I can either take offense or roll with the punches; I've chosen the latter—but people tend to be so anxious to not be offensive that they automatically assume the other person is touchy or passive-aggressive. So to allay any fears of lifelong emotional scarring, I stick my hands casually in my jean pockets and shrug.

But clearly it doesn't work. Hen and Lou exchange a _look_, and Hen starts in, "Sorry, it's just been—"

But Lou interrupts: "Well, if you were around more, you'd probably be up to speed." And crosses her arms. And juts out her hip. And _glares_. None of which spell success for me.

Now, there are several things which I could say at this moment. Several things I would very much _like_ to say. I could say that we live next door, and if there's anything you want me to know, you can walk twenty feet and tell me. Or use the cell phone you possess specifically for the purpose of communicating with others. I could say that if you wanted me to know, you would have told me, and you're mad at me not because you think I'm touchy, but because you don't want me coming. I want to say that just because the guy you like isn't dating you, it doesn't mean you can be snippy and mean to me, who has been your friend for a long time. I want to say get over yourself and tell me about the trip.

Instead, I smile, and shake my head, and say, "Oh, no, I'm not offended, it was just a surprise. What's this about Lyme?" Hen smiles, and Lou relaxes. Ahmir doesn't say anything, but I catch his eye for a second, and he gives me a long, considering look that isn't hostile. And later, after I climb back up the hill from retrieving the ball, I see him looking at Lou in the same way. But then I look away.

It's time to think of other things.

The trip to Lyme, as it turns out, is Ahmir's brainchild. His best friends, Harry Harville and Ben Chaptin, who are left forward and right defensive forward, respectively, on the Flash wit h Ahmir, live in Lyme. Harville is still recovering from an injury he got toward the end of last season, an injury which may or may not be the end of his soccer career. The physical therapy has kept him close to home, and Ahmir hasn't seen him or Chaptin in a month. When he told Lou about his plans to go visit them, she pounced on the idea of spending time in a resort town, and made it a group trip.

Which is where Hen and I come in. The art of the group trip is that it's low-pressure. Like a group date, the kind you have in middle school where you sit next to each other but don't have to spend awkward time together, the group trip has all the opportunities of a couple's trip, but all the security of having the best of chastity belts, your family, be there with you. That way, there's no suspicion of ulterior motives, even if none of your motives resemble anything close to respectable.

While I know my part in all of this is marginal and useful for someone else's purpose, I am excited to go. The last time I was in Lyme, I was seven. It was the year before my mother died, and she and I have played on the beach for hours. Lyme was a Cape town under-visited, under-appreciated, and absolutely free from the touristy Cape stuff that afflicted nearly every other area. I am also a little ashamed to be finding ulterior motives in everything Lou does. Maybe it was a nice gesture, or a reassurance that he wasn't going to spoil the party. Where Lou suddenly finds me burdensome and obnoxiously reticent, I am appalled to realize that I find her catty and self-centered. This, after years of friendship. I _am_ jealous. It has to be said. I don't like seeing her with Ahmir, and even though I'm trying to let go of the ferocity of the hold my heart has on him, I can't seem to shake the envy I feel when I see them together. And while admitting it is one step closer to a cure, if there is a cure, it doesn't help that I have, in some way, betrayed an old friend of mine. I no longer trust her judgment. And I can't trust mine either, out of shame.

So when we pack the cars, I don't say a word. When the group splits up, I opt to ride with Mary and Charles and Charlie, rather than with Ahmir and the girls. The ride is a long one—four hours with good traffic—and I spend most of that time asleep. I want to escape my weakness, the kind that makes me jealous of my friend's happiness. I have no right to be jealous. I rejected him. I disappointed him, and I deserted him. We're strangers, and worse than that, because we can't ever be friends again. I have lost any chance with him forever. I've known it, but I haven't accepted it, and this, this moment, right now, I have to start if I'm ever going to be all right. So I sleep, with Charlie's head on my shoulder, and I pretend as I drift off that when I wake up everything will be fixed. I pretend that my dreams will carry my jealousy, my pettiness, my anger away with them, and I'll be left with someone I can be proud of, a person I can live with. I pretend that my dreams, if I have them, will soothe me, and comfort me, and convince me to be happy with what I have. I pretend that when I wake up, I will love someone else. I pretend that that's possible.

And then we're there, in Lyme, driving up to the small house Ahmir rented for the trip. It's the gravel of the driveway that wakes me up from the near-coma I've been in the majority of the trip. I drag my eyes open as Charlie closes his door, and Mary peers through the windshield at the classic beachside New England cottage, with natural shingle and white trim. A small brass number twenty-seven is affixed on one side of the front door, under the front light. I carefully lift Charlie's sleeping head off my shoulder, and sit him upright in his car seat. Then I open my door, my muscles screaming in protest as they stretch, my legs slowly coming back to life under me as I stand, leaning against the car, taking in the scenery.

It's breath-taking. Anyone who has never been to New England always associates us with penny loafers and sweater vests, with lobsters and Harvard and the Big Dig. Anyone from Texas or the backwoods of Alabama usually calls us Godless liberals and completely un-American, and leaves it at that. But there is a kind of untamed beauty about the seaside that takes my breath away every time I see it. The gray water, the green sea grass, the little houses that are ridiculously expensive to own. The politics of the place—the social setups and the traditions—are unimportant, really. It's the sea that matters, and it is so beautiful. You could travel your whole life and never see anything to match it. Breathing in the air, I lift my face to the sky, as little tiny drops of mist float down onto it. It's a deep breath, and when I exhale, I feel better. And then I turn toward the house, and help Charlie out of the car, and throw my bag over my shoulder.

There is, of course, an immediate problem with the house: it is too small. Ahmir needs his own room, being the only single man there and not yet officially dating Lou. Lou and Hen share the room on the top floor with the twin beds, an obvious set-up. Mary and Charles get the master bedroom, which also has a daybed. As Ahmir lays out his idea for Charlie to sleep on the daybed, giving me the last room on the bottom floor, he meets with strong resistance from Mary.

"Oh, no, no, no, Charlie needs to have his own room." She insists, holding her shoulder bag with both hands, and taking a stance which says very clearly _I saying it nicely but just try and fight me_. Her sunglasses are on top of her head, giving her the unsettling appearance of glaring at Ahmir with two sets of eyes. Her newly-manicured nails flash like claws in the light shining in from the open front door and the large windows.

Ahmir chances a look my way. He looks away quickly, and says, "I'm sorry, I thought that you would be okay with Charlie sleeping in your room. That last room was supposed to be for—"

Mary cuts him off, "No, Charlie needs to develop a schedule without us being there. He needs to sleep in a room by himself. A vacation like this could ruin his schedule, and then we'd have to start all over again when we get home."

"But what about Anne?" Lou asks, hands on her hips, frowning thunderously.

Everyone looks at me. I have a choice: insist on a real bed and create needless conflict, or sleep on the couch and let my sister win. I suddenly realize that I honestly don't care. I sling my bag down on the couch, and as it hits, I say "Problem solved." Nobody moves for a moment, then they splinter off. Lou and Hen go upstairs, grumbling. Mary pulls Charlie to his room to put his things away, and Charles travels to the master bedroom. Ahmir stands still in the middle of the room, his mouth a thin line. He had thought he'd planned it better, I could tell, and he was annoyed.

I turn toward him, and shrug. "It's okay."

He starts a little, and considers me for a moment. I give him a small, resigned smile, and shrug again. He frowns, then, after a moment, moves away to the stairs, shaking his head.

His footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs, but I don't know if he turns to look at me again. I'm already unzipping my duffle and taking out my sleeping bag. I don't think I'll be sleeping well that night.


	12. Teenage Feeling

Charlie may only come up to my hips, but he can kick a soccer ball like it's nobody's business. I have always thought of him as clumsy, somehow, most likely because he doesn't do a lot of sports activities. But in ten minutes, he is a better dribbler than I was after a year of pretending I could play at the park. In twenty minutes, he is giving me a run for money. And the kid is _fast._

We're on the front lawn, which is long and wide. The rest of the group has gone off to explore, and Charlie and I are playing one-on-one with my shoes as goalposts.

I don't tell many people this, but I love soccer. And not just because of Ahmir, although he did definitely add to the attraction of the game for me. No, I've loved soccer since I was six years old and we wore tiny navy-blue-and-white uniforms and played each other on Saturday mornings up near the center of my town. They gave us orange slices and water, and yelled support to us as we kicked the ball wherever we wanted to. Sometimes it would end up in the goal. I played all the way up to middle school with a varying degree of skill (varying on the low side) until my mom died, and I hung up my soccer jersey, along with a lot of other things. I contented myself with watching it, and cheering on the players. I told myself I hadn't really been that good anyway, so why cry about it?

Not today, though. Today, I am deeply entrenched in teaching Charlie all about the beautiful game. Charlie, who is grass-stained and dirty, and who has mud on his shoes, and doesn't even notice. Charlie, who could actually be pretty good at this game eventually, when he develops the fine motor skills that he won't have until he's a little closer to double digits.

I announce our game: "Aaaaaaaaand Musgrove's making a break, he's going for it. CAN HE MAKE IT? The crowd is on its feet, CAN HE DO IT?" Then, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAALLL!" I fall to my knees, my arms up in ecstatic joy. "A fantastic boot by Musgrove, right past Elliot's defenses! And the crowd goes wild!" I lift him up off the ground, hoisting him in the air for a moment of victory before I bring him down to the grass with me, tickling him. He giggles his high-pitched little squeal, then starts trying to escape. Just as I am standing up to hoist him under my arm for a victory lap, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

I turn to three professional soccer players staring at me. Ahmir is standing between Harry Harville and Ben Chaptin, with Hen, Lou, and my sister and her husband ranged behind them. I don't know how long they've been there, but judging by the smirks on Hen and Lou's faces, it's been long enough.

I put Charlie down on the ground, and he runs immediately to Charles, babbling excitedly. I, however, do not stick the landing quite so well, and hurriedly fix my clothes in a lackluster attempt at nonchalance. I follow it up with a crowd favorite. "Oh…hi. Hi there." Which is pure gold. To the communication public.

"Heeeeeeey," Lou and Hen respond simultaneously. I'm torn between melting into a puddle on the ground and making a face at them, but Lou steps in before I can. "Anne, this is Harry and Ben. You guys, this is Anne, our sister-in-law."

Ben sticks out his hand politely, although he looks dour this close up. Not that I blame him, of course. His brooding, unlike that of so many literary characters and bad boy wannabes, is justified. He attempts a smile, and I attempt a hello.

Harry is taller than Ben, and older, with premature graying that the temples. His characteristically lean physique is off-set by a high-tech knee brace on his right knee and a cane. He gives me a piercing look when I stick out my hand. "Anne…Elliot?" he asks, and at that moment I know he knows everything. Melting into the ground doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"Yes. Nice to meet you."

"Good to meet you, too." He shakes my hand a little too firmly. Oh yeah, he does, he knows everything. Ahmir must have told him.

Well. This is awkward.

I turn quickly away and focus on the rest of the group, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans as I do. "What are you guys up to?"

"We're going to the beach," Lou chirps up.

"Wanna come?" says Hen.

I only have one bathing suit. I haven't worn it in two years. It is guaranteed not to fit.

But on the other hand, if I go to the beach, I get to see Ahmir without a shirt.

"Absolutely."

* * *

I'm right. The suit doesn't fit. Not only does it bag over my body, which has none of the curves it used to have, but at some point in the last two years it's managed to become awkwardly see-through and pepper with lint-balls.

"Mary?" I call from the bathroom. Mary has been lying down with a migraine all day, and has only just emerged from her completely dark room.

"Mmm?"

"Can I borrow your bathing suit?" Mary keeps her body scientifically without any fat on it. On any other day, I would lament this fact, but right now it serves my purposes brilliantly.

"Why? Don't you think I'm coming?"

"Mary, you just got over a migraine, and it's bright outside. You should rest."

"I don't want to rest. I'm sick of resting. You should rest."

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. _

"Did you bring more than one bathing suit? Mine doesn't fit, or I wouldn't ask."

"You'll stretch it out."

_One. Two. Three…_

"We're the same size, Mary."

"You'll get it sandy."

"It's the beach."

"So?"

"So the beach has sand. You'll get sandy, too."

"I know how to take care of myself."

_ONE. TWO. THREE…_

"Mary. I'll wash it. I'll take care of it, and I'll get a new one tomorrow. Okay? I just need to borrow something for now."

There's a _thump_ _thump_ as the top and bottom halves of a too-tiny bikini collide with the door and then fall to the ground.

"I don't even know why you're going, anyway. You barely talk to any of them."

I forget to breathe. "Yeah I know. I'm usually too busy taking care of your son." I open the door and retrieve the suit. There is a frosty silence from the other side. Then, "I've been busy."

There is a frosty silence from my side of the door. The bikini has the Coach symbol over and over it. Awesome. I should never have stopped swimming. Why did I stop swimming?

I pull the suit on quickly, tying the white strings behind my neck. I pull my clothes on over it, grab my sunglasses and my flip flops, and open the door.

Mary is sitting on the couch crying.

_One. Two. Three._

"Anne?"

_Four. Five. _

"Mary, what's wrong?" I go to sit on the coffee table, eye-to-eye with her tearstained face.

"I feel so overwhelmed, Anne. I have so much to do, and I feel so bad, and it gets hard, you know?" She puts her head in her hands and sobs shake her shoulders.

Mary and Charlie are very similar. When Charlie doesn't get what he wants, he cries. When he doesn't want to do a physical activity, he pretends he's hurt. When he wants attention, he does exactly the thing he knows will get it from me.

Charlie, of course, is almost four. Mary is twenty years older.

Louisa May Alcott once said that to "help one another, is part of the religion of sisterhood." And she had three of them. My sisterly duty, in this situation, is to take her by the shoulders, and dry her tears, and comfort her, and tell her she's a strong, independent woman who can take on all the things she needs to do to succeed. I need to reassure her of her brilliance and her radiance and her thinness, and let her know that I could never, ever, be better than her.

But I guess I'm blasphemous, because at this particular moment, I don't give a shit about the religion of sisterhood. I pat her on the head twice, and stand up, walking out the door and closing it firmly behind me.

* * *

No one goes to the beach to swimming. At least, that's what Hen's issue of _Cosmo_ has told us. Apparently, the beach is an excellent place to pick up men, and a "Fun, Fearless" way to do it is to trip and fall near a beach volleyball game peopled by "hotties" and as one of the sweaty pieces of man-meat help you up, giggle and say "I think I was blinded by the light shining off your abs."

Lou, Hen, and I are lying on our towels in the sun. Lou and Hen have already stripped down to their bikinis, but I want to prolong the time before I need to reveal mine for as long as possible. Now that we're here, it doesn't seem like such a good idea to have borrowed one from Mary. Especially since no one else wants to go swimming. I might as well have just brought a book.

We are waiting, of course, for the guys to appear. On one thing, it seems, _Cosmo _and Hen absolutely agree, and that is that if you are already in the water when the guys show up, it will have been a missed opportunity to have them admire your perfectly crafted physique, and maybe get them to rub some sunblock on your skin.

Luckily, we don't have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later, Ahmir, Ben, Harry, his wife and their two kids have settled down around us. I feel bad for Harry, but also completely in awe of him. Not only is he formidable-looking man (six-feet plus of pure muscle) but he also manages to look completely cool and relaxed on the beach, with his leg stretched out awkwardly in front of him, while he hangs out with his wife and kids. His wife, Nikki, is a little bland but exceptionally nice, and the love they have for each other is obvious.

Ahmir sets his towel up next to Hen, the farthest away from me that he can be. Ben throws his down on my side, and sits down. He very obviously does not want to be here. He's still wearing his sneakers.

I am suddenly uncertain about my decision to be here. Obviously, I want to see Ahmir shirtless. That is a given, than has not changed. But at the same time, I'm now in the presence of two people who realize just how awkward this situation is, and who are most likely not going to forgive me any time soon. On top of that, Lou is miffed that Ahmir isn't next to her, and the guy on my other side won't be up for conversing because his fiancé died six months ago. And it's not like I can just talk to Hen or Nikki. Because yes, that would be awkward. And rude. Which seems to be the theme for the day. Maybe I should just head back to the house after a decent interval has elapsed.

I compromise by lying back down on my towel and throwing my arm across my face. The sun is bright, but the breeze is up, and the wind ripples the sea grass behind us and runs over my arm, forehead, and legs. If this is how it's going to be for the rest of the time, it's okay by me.

But time passes. The talk runs over me, and goes around me, and I start to feel as though I'm copping out. I come to the beach with these guys to what? Make it more awkward for them? Just to be there? I came to be with people, and I should actually try and do that, or I might as well go up to the house and ask Mary how her life is going. I need to talk to someone. Just…someone.

There really is only one option. Lou is focused to our right, and Ahmir and Harry are both in that direction, too. I turn to Ben, who I find, with some surprise, reading.

I scan the cover. "Lord Byron?" I sound insultingly amazed, and I keep my gaze friendly as he turns his head to me.

"What?"

"You're reading Lord Byron," I say. Idiotically. He thinks so, too, because he lifts the book so I can see the cover, and bounces it as if he were nodding. "Yup."

Silence. Then, "Do you mind if I ask which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Which poem?"

He fixes me with a withering gaze and then looks down at the book. "I will not ask where thou liest low,  
Nor gaze upon the spot;  
There flowers or weeds at will may grow;  
So I behold them not."

I quirk my mouth up slightly in a smile, and finish the stanza, "It is enough for me to prove  
That what I lov'd, and long must love;  
Like common earth can rot,  
To me there needs no stone to tell,  
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well."

He looks at me closer now, a smile working its way into his eyes and peeking out of his mouth. "You read Lord Byron?"

"Ummm, yeah," I joke, rolling my eyes, "duh."

His smile grows a little, and he leans in. "Do you like poetry in general, or just…"

"Just depressing nineteenth-century pack-leaders? I like it all. Well, not _all_," I amend, "I mean, some of it makes no damn sense to me, but I do like poetry."

"Do you write any?"

Tricky. "From time to time. I'm better at reading it, honestly."

He smiles again, and this one isn't so fleeting. We embark on a discussion of contemporary versus classic, our favorite poets, our favorite poems, and everything in between. He's not bad looking when he's excited about something, and I can sort of see his slow, nostalgic nature being very attractive to someone. Especially to a woman who's on the receiving end of that interest. For a while, lost in the conversation, I don't pay attention to what's going on on my right. I don't know what they're talking about, and I don't think to care.

"What do you think—"he starts to ask, before his phone rings. He takes it out sheepishly—it's enormous—and stands up to answer, walking away from the group. I watch him go for a second, before turning back to look at the sea. I glance over my shoulder at the rest of the group, and look straight into Ahmir's eyes. He looks away quickly, glancing down to draw images in the sand. I look further over, and see Harry's eyes on me, too. He sees me looking, but he doesn't look away. I do.

"Anne, are you going to be in your clothes all this time?" Lou asks. She, Nikki and Hen have long since lost their cover-ups, and Harry and Ahmir have stripped down to their trunks. Ben and I, it seems, have missed the boat.

"Come on, it's like a million degrees out," Hen pipes up, squinting up at me.

I sigh. Here it is. I stand up, whipping off my t-shirt to reveal the branded top half of my borrowed suit, then quickly step out of my shorts as well. As I flop down on my towel, Lou lets out a snort. "What are you wearing?" Normally, I would agree with this sentiment, but today I find it slightly irritating.

"It's Mary's." I answer, as shortly as I can.

"Jesus, I bet it is. We could have lent you something, you know," Lou says, leaning up on her elbows. "But I have boobs, so you're probably better off in that, anyway."

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. _

"Yep." I lie back down on the towel, in the exact same position as before.

"You know, Anne, Ben's kind of cute," Lou says in a conspiratorial voice that fails to be conspiratorial. "You should go for it."

"Uh huh."

"No, seriously. He likes you, doesn't he?

"He likes poetry."

"He likes that _you _like poetry."

"I bet we share a common interest in pizza, too. That doesn't mean we're destined to be."

"I'm not talking about marriage, Anne. God. I'm just saying maybe it's time you took care of that little dry-spell problem of yours, okay?"

"Leave it alone, Lou."

"Maybe you're happy not having sex for five years, but it's bringing the whole team down."

I have no answer for that. Not only is it the most ridiculous, insulting thing I've ever heard Lou say to anyone, it was also said in front of an entire group of almost-strangers. Hen's subdued, "_Lou!_" notwithstanding, there is no noise from this group at all. I don't want to think, I don't want to talk, I don't want to complain. I'd rather get up and run away, and keep running until I forget my name, and his name, and anyone and anything that has to do with the past decade of my life.

But I can't do that. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. _

"I'm gonna swim." I get up without looking at anyone, and make my way down the beach until I'm a good distance away from the group, and I walk right into the water. It's freezing. I'm pretty sure my hair is standing on end, and I wade in as fast as I can until I'm standing at waist level. From there I duck under again and again and again, swimming out as far as the ropes, and then back, and then out again. Over and over until my head is clear and my heart is cold and I can think and think and think.

Obviously, this is not going so well.

* * *

I'm out in the water until we leave. Ben raises his voice to call me out of the ocean as the others busy themselves packing up. I wade as fast as I can out of the water, shaking out my wet hair and rubbing salt water out of my eyes. The rest of the group is a little ways away, waiting for me to be ready to leave. I grab up my towel, now slightly sandy, and slip on my flip flops. My shorts are easy to find, but my shirt seems to have disappeared. I look around me quickly, but I can't see it.

"What are you missing?" Hen asks from the group.

"My t-shirt," I call back, "I can't—"

A hand appears from the corner of my vision, holding my shirt out to me.

"Is this it?" a deep, soothing voice asks. I look up the arm to the face. He's very good looking, with tousled sandy blonde hair and a big grin. The square jaw is softened by a set of dimples any grandmother would die over. And he's focusing all their power directly on me.

I take the shirt. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says, walking backwards but keeping me fixed in his charming gaze. "I'm always happy to help the beautiful ladies." He winks at me, and turns around, glancing back over his shoulder as he walks back to his spot.

I turn back toward the group, walking past them as they stare back at the mystery man. I turn around and call back over my shoulder, "Are you coming?" They seem to shake themselves and follow me. I feel eyes on me the rest of the way home, but I don't turn around. Instead, my mind works over and over again four words that I hadn't thought since high school.

He thinks I'm cute!


	13. On a Sea, Adrift, Afloat

I don't sleep well that night. I have nightmares, some of the worst I've had in years.

In one, I stand in the parking lot behind my dorm building, watching Ahmir get into his beat-up Toyota and drive away as fast as he can. The exhaust blows grit into my eyes, but I'm already crying. I wake up crying.

When I go back to sleep, I dream of an open green space in the middle of a circle of collegiate brick buildings. I can only see my feet in their ballet flats, step by step along the pavement. And then I see another pair, big white dirty sneakers, and I look up into his face. I smile at him. I know this part. He'll say hello, and ask me for help finding a building, a building he already knows how to get to. He'll say hello first. But he doesn't say hello. After he stops shouting at me, after he stops pleading with me, he doesn't say anything. He's not crying, but he's crying. He never cries, but he's crying, and he's so angry, and I can't stop it. The things I would normally do, I can't, because I'm the reason he's crying. And suddenly we're not in the quad anymore. We're in my room, and I'm handing him a bag of his things, and I'm crying, too. But I won't look at him. I look at his shoes, the dirty beat-up shoes that were the first thing my father noticed about Ahmir. I look at them, and I pretend it's not happening.

* * *

I wake up freezing. The clock in the kitchen, which I have to sit up and crane my neck to see, says that it's 2:30. I snuggle down under the thin fleece blanket that smells vaguely of mothballs, curl up into a fetal position until my shivering subsides, and then fall back into a fitful sleep that is, thank God, free of dreams.

I wake up suddenly, hours later. The sun is out, but it's still early in the morning. For a moment, I'm disoriented, but I get my bearings quickly as Mary plunks a mug of tea down next to me. I look up at her in surprise, but she just makes a drinking gesture and goes back to the kitchen. I pick up the mug, test a sip, and then put it down. I'll wait until it's lukewarm to drink it.

There is another blanket on my couch. Puzzled, I separate the top from the bottom slightly with my hands. Yes, there's the teal fleece one, and on top of it is a white and blue comforter. Either I sleep-walked in the night or someone put the blanket on me during the night. I look from the tea on the table to Mary in the kitchen. Being so thoughtful is unlike her, but then, she was always unpredictable.

"What's up?" I ask, rubbing the grit out of my eyes.

"Breakfast." That's all. I don't press it, but I stretch and yawn instead. I don't feel like getting up yet.

"You're up early," I say finally, as the near-silent preparations in the kitchen start to unnerve me. She never makes this little noise.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, eyes fixed on the cutting board, where she's chopping onions. The smell of sautéing onions soon permeates the room. "Nightmares."

"Me, too."

"That's not surprising. Hard to believe it's been over a decade, isn't it?"

I stare at her blankly for a moment. Then, as my memory kicks in, I am profoundly grateful that she's looking at the frying pan and not at me. I have completely forgotten.

My mother died today, eleven years ago. Today is the anniversary of her death.

We have a tradition, Mary and me. Usually, neither of us can sleep on the night before this day, so we get up early and make an enormous breakfast. Pancakes, waffles, omelets, toast. It's the one day a year that Mary lets herself off her constant diet. And she even eats grapefruit for breakfast on Christmas.

I can't _believe_ I forgot. I have never forgotten, not once. Usually, I'm wallowing in misery up to two days in advance. I try to think of a time when I remembered it yesterday, but there is none. I forgot so completely, the remembering of it is painful, a loud echo of what losing her felt like. I am blown back, literally, into the chair. My sternum feels like it's being pushed back through my body to reach my spine, and I sit, completely immobile. Finally, finally, I remember to breathe. Finally, I remember that Mary asked me a question. I have to answer it.

"Yeah."

We sit in silence again for a moment, and I reach over the grab my mug. It's still too hot for me to drink without burning my tongue, but I need it's warmth, in my hands and on my chest.

"Do you need help? I can make the waffles. Or do you want pancakes?"

"You sit. I'll make the pancakes. Chocolate chips?"

"Yes, please. Is there anything I can do?"

"Drink your tea."

In the silence that grows between us, the screen door to the back patio opens, and Ahmir steps in quietly. He turns and sees the two of us, me clutching my mug of tea, swaddled in the blankets on the couch, Mary with her rubber spatula in hand, stirring the eggs into perfect omelets with one hand while mixing pancake batter with the other. His eyes return to me, flicking quickly over the bedclothes on my lap, the down comforter piled in mountains of excess all over me. Then his eyes meet mine, and I think he reads what's on our faces, because he gives a small nod, and I can read something that looks like pity in his eyes.

Except I don't want his pity. I never have. I look away, finally unable to bear the sympathetic disinterest I see there, and shift the mug in my hands. If it were cool enough to drink, my looking away would be less rude. As it is, it's clear that I don't want to make eye contact with him. I don't care. I don't want him to look at me at all if it's going to be like that. I'd rather he never look at me again.

Ahmir makes his way up the stairs. When his back is turned, I sneak a peek at him as he climbs. He's sweaty from running; he must have been up disgustingly early.

I take a searing sip of tea. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

* * *

When I finally drag myself up off the couch, after I've eaten my weight in greasy breakfast foods, I go for a walk. This is another anniversary tradition. Suddenly, I feel the need to make sure that every single one of my traditions is observed to the letter. I have to suppress the desire to go overboard. I feel like I should be spending my entire day crying. Like that would be the only real way to do justice to my mom. But I have to function, I have to do something with myself and my day. I've had enough of wallowing.

It doesn't help that guilty feeling.

My walk is long, from along the beach to into the downtown area and out to form a large loop. As I'm passing the rundown shack that calls itself the Taxi Paradise, I hear a shout from across the street. I look up from my shoes, and see the blonde man from the beach, the one who gave me my tee-shirt back. He is directly across the street, and he is waving at me enthusiastically.

_Okay…_ I stare at him quizzically, and then offer a wave of my own in return. He makes an elaborate bow to me, and I smile. He looks like he wants to come talk to me, and for a moment, I panic. Today is not a good day for me to meet people. I pretend to answer my phone, and hurry down the street. Smooth.

When I get back to the house, it seems deserted. I let myself in the front door, and stand in the middle of the quiet, empty kitchen in indecision. What do I do with myself now?

I hear the faint sound of voices from outside. I go out the back door, and follow the sound down the rocky path that leads to a little ocean view. As I get closer, I recognize Ahmir and Harry's voices, raised an arguing. But as I recognize their voices, it's too late to not hear what they're saying.

"…I just think you need to take this slow, Cap—" Harry is saying.

"What do you think I've been doing, Harry? Have you seen me with her?"

"Yeah, I have, which why I'm saying this. This entire thing is messed up—"

"And I've messed it up?"

"Yeah."

"What do you want me to do? You want me to serenade her, or something? Get down on one knee?"

"Dude, calm down, okay?"

"Fine. Fine. What should I do then?"

"You should tell her the truth. Tell her how you feel. Treat her like you feel something for her."

There is a scoffing noise, and I back away quickly, blushing. I just eavesdropped on a completely private conversation, and my survival instincts combine with my sense of propriety. I don't want to intrude on their privacy, and I definitely don't want to hear them talking about Lou, or his feelings for her. Maybe I read him wrong. It has been a long time. Maybe he's just more careful about how he shows his feelings. I wouldn't blame him if that were true. I did destroy him once.

I run up the path to the house, and slide the back door closed quickly behind me. From there, I flail helplessly for a moment, trying to figure out what to do that won't make it seem like I'm waiting for them to come back. I have nothing. There's no TV, which normally wouldn't bother me as much, but here seems like a death sentence. I hear them coming up the path, closing in on the back door, and here I'm standing, like a fish out of water. I notice the newspaper, but too late, the mad dash would be obvious through the screen of the sliding door. I've just given up hope when there's a knock on the front door. I dive for it a little too enthusiastically, and I stand aside to let Ben in just as Harry and Ahmir are reaching the back door.

"Ben!" My voice is too high pitched. I take a breath, and say, attempting nonchalance, "what's up?"

"I thought I'd bring this over," he smiles a sad smile down at me, and holds out a thin paperback book. He is very close to my personal space. "It has some fantastic poems in it." The sliding door closes behind me as I look down at the cover.

"Laurence Hope?"

" She was an English woman writing under a pseudonym in India at the turn of the century. It's a little…advanced for the times, I think." I raise an eyebrow. "But she's good, I promise. I had it lying around since…and I thought you'd appreciate it." He finishes, shrugging.

I smile, a real smile, and shrug, too, turning away. "Yeah, who doesn't appreciate the occasional colonial sexy poem?"

He blushes, and Harry clears his throat. I jump internally, realizing that Harry and Ahmir have been there the whole time, and they witnessed everything. I am momentarily embarrassed, and want to assure all and sundry that nothing is going on between Ben and me. But then I remember that there is no one in this room who really needs to hear that, or who even cares. So I don't tell them. It's really none of their business, anyway.

* * *

Mary, Charles, and Charlie come back half an hour later, followed closely by Lou and Hen who were shopping at the outlets. It starts to rain, a slow, gray, depressing drizzle that makes the house humid and freezing but makes leaving it almost unimaginable.

We all sit down to dinner. Since no one wanted to cook, we order pizza which comes appropriately greasy and artery-clogging. I'm starving, despite my enormous breakfast, and long after everyone else has eaten their fill, I reach across Hen to grab a fourth slice of pepperoni.

"What do you have there, Anne?" Hen asks, pointing at the book Ben gave me, which is behind me on my chair seat. I bring it out, and explain it briefly. Her eyes light up, and she sits up straight. "Dirty poetry?"

"No, it's not—" Ben starts, obviously bothered by the misunderstanding. I shoot him a wry glance, shrugging. Hen claps her hands. "Let's hear some!"

"Please, read some," Charles. I try not to blush, because I remember the one other time I read out loud to Charles, and I remember what happened afterwards. I avoid his gaze, but I open the book. The truth is, I'm curious, too. I flip to a random page, and start reading.

"And under your kisses I hardly knew  
Whether I loved or hated you.

But your words were flame and your kisses fire,  
And who shall resist a strong desire?  
Not I, whose life is a broken boat  
On a sea of passions, adrift, afloat.  
And whether I came in love or hate,  
That I came to you was written by Fate."

"Ooh!" Lou says, smiling her old smile. "That's wonderful!" The rest of the table nods silently. I look across at Ben and smile my thanks at him. He smiles back. "I knew you'd like it."

"I do, but I gotta tell you, man, you should read something other than lovesick poetry every once in a while. This stuff gets heavy after too long."

I immediately realize that I've overstepped. His face closes up, and he says, formally, "What would you suggest?"

"I hear those Harry Potter books are really something," I joke, making my voice and face as earnest as possible. "Though they're filled with youngsters in peril. And then there are those faaaaaaabulous vampire books—"

"Okay, enough," he stops me, laughing. I smile back, and pick up my slice again. As I chew, I look down the long table to lock eyes with Ahmir. He's not looking at me with pity anymore. There's something else in his eyes, something unreadable. I frown, trying to understand, but this time, he's the one who looks away first. I stare at him a second longer, still trying to read his facial expression, but I'm distracted by Lou and Hen's conversation about a reality show.

"…But it's about body pride," Hen says, gesturing vaguely with her left hand.

"But isn't the point to get them to _not_ be obese? Isn't it like, a deadly level of obesity?"

"Yeah, but you have to _start_ with body pride, though. You know, 'we're all beautiful.'"

"But why, if they're just going to make them change their bodies later anyway?"

"Because you have to love yourself before you can make good choices," I put in quietly. It doesn't matter, the whole table was listening to them anyway. "The reason they start there is because you can't do the right things for the right reasons if you don't know what the right reasons are. If you learn to love yourself more than an idea or an image, then you do the right things for yourself."

There's a small silence. Then Charles, in a voice full of almost insulting surprise, says "That's very wise, Anne."

"Well, sure," says Lou, turning to smile at me. "Anne probably has a lot of experience with that kind of thing. I mean, her mom…" she trails off, her eyes going wide with horror. My own face freezes. There is a terrible, nasty, silence suddenly hanging over the room, like a cloud. Charles clears his throat. Mary has gone rigid. I turn from Lou, and put down my slice of pizza. Lou says, "Anne, oh my God, I am so sorry. Mary…" but she trails off again, mortified. I have no energy to comfort her. I get up and start clearing the plates. I turn the coffee maker on, and put the kettle on for tea. Lou excuses herself and goes running from the room, followed closely by Hen. The rest of the group breaks up awkwardly. Ben makes his goodbyes and goes home. Charles goes out to smoke a cigar as far away from the house as he can go without being out of earshot.

I turn on the dishwasher and then lean against the counter, drying my hands on the dish rag. It's only then that I realize that Ahmir and I are the only ones left in the room. We watch each other for a second. He leans on the counter, too, at the very edge, and he fixes me with a calm, sympathetic eye.

Finally, he says, "My grandma died."

"What?" I breathe. "When?"

"Three years ago."

"Oh, Ahm—Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

He shrugs. "I didn't tell you." We sit in silence for a second. Then he says, "I'm not trying to undermine your sadness or get sympathy points or anything. I just know what it feels like to have the woman who raised you and nurture you disappear. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorrier than I can say" It could have sounded stiff or stupid or manipulative. Instead it sounds sincere, and my heart jumps, and I'm falling again.

_This is a good man._ My mind tells me_. He takes the time to try to make you feel better even when he doesn't like you. This is a good man. He deserves good things._

I'm in love with him again. I've fallen in love again. But this is the kind of love now that's hopeless, and so it's distant, and slightly sad, and oddly formal. _Lou may love you completely_, it says, _but I love you more and I loved you first. _

And now I know, at last, what it feels like to have all that idiotic, unfounded, unwise hope disappear. Now that it has, I'm sorrier than I can say.


	14. Best Wishes

The blonde man is literally everywhere I go. Out of the corner of my eye, in a coffee shop, down the road. He's always doing something, always with someone, always talking. Every once in a while, I think I recognize him, but it's not until Mary grabs my arm suddenly in the middle of a Flatbread that I work it out.

"Anne, do you see the guy getting into the car outside?"

I turn to look. Sure enough, it's the mystery blonde man. Hen, Lou, Harry, Ben, Nikki, and Charles all turn to look, while the kids draw on their place mats.

"Ohh, isn't he the one who was hitting on you?" Hen asks me. Lou stays oddly quiet, still uncomfortable from yesterday.

"Hitting on her? Why would he hit on her?" Mary asks. "Do you know who he is, Anne?"

"No, not really…"

"That's Elliot Williams," I stare at her blankly. "_Elliot Williams_. You know, Mom's lawyer's son. You used to play with him when you were younger." The fact that she knows this stuff about me is unbelievable.

"You mean the kid who used to throw rocks at me? _That _Elliot Williams?"

"He did not throw rocks at you!"

"Yes, he did."

"Well, anyway that's him. Too bad you didn't know who he was, or you could have introduced yourself."

"After the fight his dad and our dad had when Mom died? Wouldn't that be weird?"

"But he liked you, Anne. He said you were pretty," Hen teases, leaning across the table. I blush, then curse myself for blushing. Just like me to turn into a stupid little girl at the worst possible time.

"Who did?" Mary demands, indignant.

"Elliot Williams," I drawl, getting a slightly sick enjoyment out of seeing Mary so uncomfortable. "And as a matter of fact, he called me beautiful."

The talk rises and falls around me, and I look across the table, catching Ahmir's eye. His expression is unreadable, and I look away from it, embarrassed.

_Elliot Williams?_

_

* * *

_

Harry likes showing us the sights and sounds of Lyme. He's as proud of his new home town, in which he would never have been able to live when he was growing up, as he is of his wife and children. Over the next week or so, he takes us on excursions and out to restaurants, and the more time I spend with him and his family, the more I like them. I see why Ahmir looks up to him.

All the exercise, of course, is not good for his knee. The day we had planned to go walking around the low cliffs to the northeast, he is laid up in bed, his leg in a bionic ligament stretcher, slowly strengthening his muscles. Nikki decides not to leave him alone, and offers to babysit Charlie as well so we can have a child-free day. Mary readily agrees, bringing the number of full days she has spent with Charlie this trip down to three. Charles comes in a close second with a four. Before he goes to Harry and Nikki's, Charlie presses the new picture he's drawn—apparently a bumblebee with lightning shooting out of its body—into my hand, then hugs my legs. He accepts a kiss from Mary and a growling hug from Charles. Mary looks at my gift and purses her lips. I pretend I don't care, and I find out that it works.

The cliffs are not really as cliff-like as the ones in Ireland, or you know, places with real cliffs. These are more like steep rock faces that lead to the ocean. The area we decide to rest at isn't too deep—there's a small beach in the next alcove caused by cliff faces forming a semi-circle—but is right at the very top of a decent-sized plummet into the ocean.

I find myself a spot on the rocks that jut out into the water, a little further down the cliff face than the rest of the group. From where I sit, the sound of waves drowns out the general excited chatter from above. I open my book, put my sunglasses on, and focus my mind on drifting away.

_The torchlight flares, and the lovers lean_

_Toward Yasmini, with yearning eyes,_

_Who dances, wondering what they mean,_

_And gives cold kisses, and scant replies._

_They talk of Love, she withholds the name,-_

_(Love came to her as a Flame of Fire!)_

_From things that are only a wary shame;_

_Trivial Vanity;-light Desire._

_Ahi, Yasmini, the light Desire!_

_Yasmini bends to the praise of men,_

_And looks in the mirror, upon her hand,_

_To curse the beauty that failed her then-_

_Ah, none of her lovers can understand!_

_How her whole life hung on that beauty's power,_

_The spell that waned at the final test,_

_The charm that paled in the vital hour,-_

_Which won so many,-yet lost the best!_

_Ahi, Yasmini, who lost the best!_

_She leaves the dancing to reach the roof,_

_With the lover who claims the passing hour,_

_Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof_

_While the starlight falls in a silver shower._

_Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may,_

_He, too, will suffer e'er life be spent,-_

_But Yasmini's soul has wandered away_

_To join the Lover, who came,-and went!_

_Ahi, Yasmini, He came,-and went!* _

Suddenly, I hear a shout that is clear enough to break through my reverie.

"I'm gonna do it!" Lou calls, climbing over the rocks to stand at the very edge of the cliff, on top of what looks like a clear drop into the water. The distance down is formidable, and from where I sit, I can see that better than anyone. It's a distance that makes me catch my breath—I know what's going to happen, and I know there's no stopping it. I stand up, and hurriedly take off my shorts and my t-shirt, kicking my sandals from my feet.

"Lou!" Hen calls out, "it's too high!"

"Lou, come down," Ahmir stands up, reaching out a shand to her. "Don't be stupid. Come down. We can swim somewhere safer, okay?"

"Nope, I've made up my mind!" She throws back her head and laughs, a bright, clear, happy sound, and then she's off the top of the cliff, arms and legs swaying gracefully, her hair flying in a golden waterfall above her head. The sun shines off her bare arms and legs, giving a glow to her already tanned skin, and in that glorious moment she is an incomparable thing of beauty. I don't know if the silence I hear is real or just my ears stopping the way my own heart stops, the way my own breath stops. No time to think, no time to act, or plan. But I know what I have to do. I've been trained.

Her fall is magnificent, but she's misjudged the distance, and too late she understands. Too late, her eyes widen as her momentum pulls her forward, and forward, until her body is no longer pin-straight. If she'd known the old trick I'd been taught—to keep running in the air to stay upright, maybe it would have been different. But the angle at which she jumped, and the strength of her movement causes her to hit the water wrong. I hear the smack of her head against the surface of the water in my sternum, and the second I see where she landed, I jump in after her.

Sea rescue is different from pool or lake rescue. Sea rescue is dangerous and unpredictable, and it's all too easy to save someone else's life only to sacrifice your own, or to get both of you sucked down or pulled out to sea. When Lousia Musgrove hits the water, the blow to the head is intense. The resulting wave brings her up against a cluster of rocks, breaking both her legs, and knocking her head again.

This is the wave I jump into. There is a shout from the cliff. I can see Lou, and I need to get to her fast before she gets pulled away for good. I strike out with all my strength, and soon enough, and catch hold of her bringing her under my right arm so her head is resting on my shoulder, above the waterline. She's not conscious.

Getting to her was easy, but getting back is more difficult. The tide is going out, and it's strong. This part of the Cape is not recommended for swimming, because the riptide is deadly, and now I understand just how dangerous it can be. And if I don't get Lou back to shore soon, we could be caught in that riptide, which is essentially a death sentence. So I swim as hard as I can, cursing my own negligence of my body, the weakness of my muscles. If I'd stayed in shape, maybe I could save us.

A wave crashes against us, and go under. The pull out to sea wrenched Lou's body behind me, twisting my shoulder and arm to an extreme. She slips slightly, and I hear a _pop_ and feel searing pain as my shoulder comes out of its socket. I can't lose her, I _cannot_ lose her. I kick to the surface, hiking Lou up as best I can, and I strike out for the rock again. This time, the wave that comes pushes me against the outcrop of rocks so hard my face scrapes against the surface, and my left wrist bumps it painfully. I grab hold fiercely. I hear another shout from above, and I call something out in return. Now that we're half out of the water, the waves whip Lou's body around, wrenching my shoulder again and again.

Voices are getting nearer to me, and I hear Ahmir shout "Charles! Call 911!" Then strong hands are pulling Lou out of the water. I can't let go of her, but I let out a sob of pain as moving her jars my shoulder. My left wrist's screaming with pain, but I keep my hold on the rocks. Then Lou is disentangled from me, and I am pulled up by my other shoulder, until I am free of the water, and I'm lying on my back, coughing up brine, face-to-face with the flawless blue sky.

"Anne! Anne, are you okay? Anne!" Ahmir's voice is shaking, and I feel his hands on my face, on my arms, on my ribs. "Anne!"

"I'm okay," I croak, struggling to sit up.

"Stay down. Did you hit your head? No, damn it, Anne, stay _down_."

"Where's Lou?" I sit up all the way.

"She's over there. I don't… She just—" he's lost, distraught. Breathless, drawn, and shaking. "I…" His hands reach out to stop me as I stand up, gasping in pain as I move my shoulder. They fall away as I move to Lou, kneeling down next to her. Mary and Hen are screaming and holding each other, and Charles is silent. Ben kneels down next to me, as does Ahmir.

"What should we do?" Ahmir asks. I take a breath to collect my thoughts.

"You've called 911?"

Ben nods. "They should be here soon."

"Okay. Check her pulse." I pick up her wrist and feel for her heart beat, and Ahmir does the same at her throat. It's there, the heart beat, and it's strong enough not to send me into a panic.

"She's breathing," Ben announces, holding his hand over her nose and mouth.

"Good." I turn to Ahmir. "Can I have your cell phone?" He pulls it out and hands it to me without question. I try to move my right arm, and bite back a scream. Ahmir reaches out and puts a hand on my uninjured shoulder. After I catch my breath, I ask him to pull her eyelid back. I find the flashlight app on his phone, and shine it directly into her eye. The pupil doesn't change. It stays dilated. _Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Oh, God. _

"She has a concussion." I say. The two men look at me. We all know that prolonged unconsciousness after a concussion is a bad, bad, thing.

* * *

I want to follow the ambulance in the car, but Ahmir insists I ride with the EMTs. There isn't much for them to do besides clean the scrape on my face and give me a piece of gauze to hold. The younger one tries to give me an oxygen tank, but I wave it away. I don't blame him. I probably would have done the same thing if I were still an EMT.

When we get to the hospital, Lou is wheeled down the end of the hall and around the corner, while I'm brought to a bed in a more open space. There, forty minutes later, my right arm is in a sling after being put back in its socket (painfully, might I add), and the finishing touches are being put to the cast on my wrist. My face has been cleaned again, and a clear, shiny, sticky gel has been put over the worst of the scrape to keep it closed. Liquid stitches, the doctor calls it.

"You're lucky, you know," she says, turning my wrist over and over, double checking her work. "We get a lot of drowning stories here. You need to be careful."

"I wasn't really swimming," I say, slightly annoyed and certainly overstimulated. "I jumped in to save—"

"Oh yes, your friend." She sounds sad, and I lean forward, desperate.

"Do you know what's going on with her? Is she going to be okay?"

"Are you family?"

"She's my sister-in-law."

"I'll see what I can find out."

The list, when it comes, is long and shocking. Lou has two broken legs, a fractured knee-cap, three cracked ribs, two sprained ankles, a collapsed lung, possible brain damage from her too-long time unconscious, and bruises over every inch of her body. When she is finally lucid, and after her scans prove that there is no internal brain bleeding, she is moved to the ICU, where the entire Musgrove and friends party moves to stand awkwardly by the bed. There are too many people in the room, and nowhere to sit down, and the doctor informs us, with a beady, terrifying stare, that we should choose someone to stay with Lou and go home and get some sleep, because all we'll do it excite her. Charles immediately offers to stay, but Mary and Hen don't want to go home without him.

"It should be Anne," Ahmir says, in the middle of the quiet bickering that arises from Charles' insisting on staying. "She knows what she's doing, she's smart, she's gentle. She won't excite Louisa when she wakes up. If someone's going to stay with Lou, it should be Anne."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Mary hisses, glancing at the door to the room, outside of which we are standing in an attempt to not overexcite Lou. "She has a broken wrist and her arm in a sling! She should be home asleep. Besides, what good would Anne be to Lou when she wakes up? Anne is nothing to Louisa, while I'm family, and I get sent home to sleep? I don't think I'll ever sleep again. No, Anne should go home."

I glance over at Ahmir and catch his eyes. He's frustrated, angry, and I give him a wry smile and a shrug, which says "You tried." His lips tighten even further. He knows as well as I do that I wouldn't have been able to sleep. He knows even better than I do how I need to be given a purpose in order to feel useful.

The in-fighting continues until Ben, who had up until this point been quiet and off at a respectful distance, offers to sit in this one night. That way Charles can bring my sister and Hen home, and I can get some rest. I look at Ahmir, expecting him to offer to stay in Ben's place, but he only nods and offers to bring Ben coffee and breakfast in the morning.

The car ride is silent on the way home. Mary gives Hen one of her Seroquel, and Charles carries her upstairs to her bed when we get back to the house. Once Hen is out of earshot, Mary rounds on me.

"What the hell were you thinking? Jumping in the water like that, have you lost your mind?"

I sigh, rubbing my eyes with my fingers as best I can. I am so tired, but I know I'll never fall asleep. "I was thinking she was going to die, and that I could help." The tires of Ahmir's car made a _crunching _noise on the gravel driveway. The front door was open, only the screen kept us insulated from the outside world.

"Now's a pretty terrible time to start playing the hero, Anne. You could have been killed."

"Yeah, I know that," I snap, my temper getting the better of me. "I was very aware of the possibility of death, okay? But Lou was drowning, what did you want me to do?"

"Sit your ass down on the rocks where it belongs and let one of the guys take care of it! Look at you, you're an absolute mess! You think you can just _jump_ in the ocean and fight the riptide and not get hurt! That's really stupid, Anne."

"Oh it's stupid. It's stupid to want to help Lou, who's been my friend for years? I was not going to just sit there and watch her drown when I could have done something. None of the guys are trained lifeguards. I am. Just try to understand that. Think you can?"

"You know, if this is how you are now, if this is the 'new Anne Elliot' thing, I can do without it."

"Poor you."

"I'm serious, Anne. If this behavior continues, I'm seriously going to have to reconsider how much time you spend with my son."

"What?"

"Your attitude? Your recklessness? Not the examples I want to set for him."

"Oh, okay, so let me get this straight: as long as I act selfishly and sit back during crises, as long as I keep my mouth shut, I have your permission to see my nephew, but when I do the first good deed I have ever done for another person, you _seriously have to reconsider _my time with him?"

"Don't be petulant—"

"And just what kind of example are _you _setting for him, Mary? You barely talk to him, you never play with him..."

"You seriously need to back off right now—"

"You just sit around here, moaning about how bad you feel, and how you never have energy to do anything, when you have responsibilities, and now you're telling _me _that I'm not responsible enough? That's really how you're gonna go with this one?"

"You're criticizing _me?_ You don't even have a _life_, you're just this, like, _drudge_—"

"You want to know why you're so freaked right now? You're just worried that if I start being really fun, Charlie, Charles, and everybody else will start liking me better than they like you! You're worried that I'll be a better mother to him than you could ever be, and at this moment, that is _exactly _what I am! Don't even start to pretend like you're worried for my safety; the real reason you're angry is because I make you redundant in your own life, and that is exactly how you'll stay until you get up off your lazy ass and _do something_!"

I have crossed a line. Big time. In the silence after I run out of breath, Mary glares at me with an indescribable hatred. But her voice, when she speaks, is deadly calm.

"Get your bags and leave. Now. Don't come back."

I can't even summon up enough feeling to be hurt. I am so full of rage, so suddenly, that I feel like it's shooting out of my hands and feet, lighting up the early evening sky in a beacon of anger. Mary goes into her room quietly, and closes the door. There is only silence from the other side. I hear a sound to my left, and see Ahmir gently opening the screen door and stepping in. He must have heard everything. He watches me warily, as if I'll fall to pieces right there on the kitchen floor. I turn impatiently away from him, only to come face to face with Charles, at the foot of the stairs, mouth agape with shock. I turn away from him, too, and go to my bag, which is on the floor by the couch. There isn't a lot for me to pack—just my toothbrush, book, and shampoo. I have never been more grateful for that than I am right now.

"Anne—" Charles starts. He stops, clears his throat. "You don't have to go anywhere. She'll blow over in a little…" he trails off. We both know he's lying.

"It's fine. I'm leaving." I stuff my book into my backpack as best I can with one arm, then lift the bag up to the back of the couch so I can wrangle it closed.

"You should at least stay the night. It's too late to start out now."

"Charles. I'm leaving. If you could drive me to the bus station—"

Two hands take my bag from my hands, and zip it closed swiftly. "No, I'll take you." I look up into Ahmir's face, surprised, and he looks back for a second, expressionless, before turning to reassure Charles that it's alright. When Charles finally stopped protesting, I let him hug me goodbye, though I am still shaking with anger.

"Say goodbye to Charlie for me, okay? And give my best to Hen and the others. And call me if…" I stop, not knowing what else to say. Charles just nods and hugs me again, and apologizes again, then stands at the door, watching Ahmir throw my bag in the trunk, watching me climb into the passenger seat, and watching us peal out of the driveway.

The drive is three and a half hours to Logan airport. Ahmir lets almost one of those hours go before he even tries talking to me.

"I'm sorry that happened." He sounds awkward, almost shy. I shrug. "Are you going to be okay?" he asks me.

"Yeah."

"Anne… look, I just wanted to say that if—if you…" he pauses, then, "how's your shoulder? Your wrist?"

"My shoulder's sore. I don't really feel the wrist anymore."

"Your face?"

"Oh, God, is it bad? I didn't even think—"

"No! No, it's not bad. I mean, it's _there_, you know, it's definitely there, but it's not disfiguring, you know." He taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. "So, you're good. Is what I'm trying to say."

We sit in silence for a little while longer. Then, "What you did was really brave. Diving in after Lou like that, that was…well, it was great."

I feel my anger start to dissipate, and for a second I let myself feel warm and fuzzy at the praise he's giving me. But just for a moment. The silence drags out, and soon, I find myself sinking down in the seat, my eyes closing as the motion from the car and the sound of the engine puts me to sleep.

* * *

I feel a hand on my cheek; a thumb, lightly striking my cheekbone.

"Anne? Anne, wake up."

I fight against the warm waves of sleep, the air from the car vents on my face, and I sit up, blinking awake and sitting up. It takes me a while to realize where we are, the fluorescent lights, the complete darkness outside, and the hustle of people to my right. When I do realize, when I fully comprehend, I turn to Ahmir, embarrassed, mortified, and stammer an apology, "Oh, oh my God, oh…Ahmir, I'm so sorry, I didn't know I slept for so long, I'm sorry…" but there's not much I can say about it now. All told, I was asleep for two hours, letting him do the driving all alone. "You should have woken me up."

"You needed your sleep," is all he says, a small smile at the corner of him mouth. His hand is resting on my headrest.

"I'm so sorry…" I look around me, rubbing my eyes and yawning. "Are you going to be okay driving back?"

"Nah, I'll get a room for the night," he hitches his thumb back toward the Hilton, "drive back in the morning," he pauses, then peers over my shoulder toward the sliding door. "Where are you going to go?"

I shrug, folding my hands over in my lap. "To Bath, I think. That's where my family is. I'll decide from there."

"Don't you hate Bath?"

I blink, surprised at how much he remembers. "Yeah, I do. But it's the only place I have to go right now, so there it is."

"Are you going to be okay going on your own?" His eyes are all concern, and I melt just a little more. If it's going to be final, I suppose it should be complete. I smile at him, reaching for the car door handle with my left hand. "I'll be okay. I'll get one of those cart thingies. No need to worry."

But he gets out of the car with me (illegally—there's no stopping at the curb), and pulls my bag from the trunk, hitching it over his own shoulder as we step into the muted lights of the A terminal. He follows me to the ticket counter, where I buy the next available flight to Bath, and loads it onto the scale and conveyer belt for me. The check personnel look from my injuries to Ahmir and back, but they don't say anything.

How do you say goodbye to an old love? How do you say goodbye at all? Most of the time, when I say goodbye, I pretend that I'll see that person the next day, to make it easier. Because I hate goodbyes. But this is goodbye, I think. Even if I see Ahmir again, it won't be the same. This is the kind of goodbye that goodbyes were invented for, the type that put people, places, and experiences truly in the past. Good luck. God be with you.

I have no idea how to do this. I can't hug him. I can't make a joke. I have nothing to hug _with_, really. Just a gimpy arm and a huge cast. But it's that cast he reaches for, and he draws a pen from his pocket, and turns my hand over until the palm is up. After a few seconds of concentrating, he releases my arm, and there, at the base of my thumb, is a tiny symbol I once taught him how to draw: a tiny mouse's face made out of a heart. Heat floods my cheeks, and I find suddenly that I'm on the verge of crying.

He caps the pen. "Take care of yourself, Anne." His eyes are very dark and very serious, and they never waver from my face.

"And the same to you, Ahmir." I have to be the one to turn away, and so I do. I turn and start to walk away, but then, suddenly, I realize that I will never get another opportunity to say what I should say, and so I turn around. He hasn't moved.

"Ahmir?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. For everything. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say. It's not much, but it's something. It's definitely something better than nothing. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything, and so I turn around and keep walking until I'm through the security, and even then I don't turn back to look. Goodbye is goodbye. It's only fair to make it a real one at the start.

End Part One.

*From "Lament of Yasmini, the Dancing Girl" by Laurence Hope. 1921.


	15. I Dance Like I've Got Diamonds

_You may write me down in history  
With your bitter, twisted lies,  
You may trod me in the very dirt  
But still, like dust, I'll rise._

__

Does my sassiness upset you?  
Why are you beset with gloom?  
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells  
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,  
With the certainty of tides,  
Just like hopes springing high,  
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?  
Bowed head and lowered eyes?  
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.  
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?  
Don't you take it awful hard  
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines  
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,  
You may cut me with your eyes,  
You may kill me with your hatefulness,  
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?  
Does it come as a surprise  
That I dance like I've got diamonds  
At the meeting of my thighs?

_Out of the huts of history's shame  
I rise  
Up from a past that's rooted in pain  
I rise  
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,  
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.  
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear  
I rise  
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear  
I rise  
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,  
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.  
I rise  
I rise  
I rise._

Maya Angelou, _"Still I'll Rise,"_

Part Two

_

* * *

_

My alarm clock and I are not on speaking terms. After its third failure in a row to ring at the designated time, I wouldn't be surprised if we have to end our relationship permanently.

I am running. My apron hits my arm where it's bundled, the ties flying behind me like the streamers on a little girl's bike. My sneakers slap the pavement with a _flep flep_ sound, my breath rings in my ears, deafening me to most of the sounds around me. I skid to a halt at a DON'T WALK sign at the first of two intersections that separate me from my destination. I take the lapse time to hurriedly throw my hair up into a bun.

Needless to say, I am running late. Literally. The diner's owner, Jay, won't care really, but I care. There's a breakfast rush, and I need to be there. Also, my pay gets docked when I'm late, and I can't really afford for that to happen.

This job wasn't easy to find, and once I had found it, it wasn't easy to get. Apparently working at the Main Gate required three glowing letters of reference, a spotless medical history, and effervescent people skills. Ability to read minds not required, but desired. Talking my way in with none of these qualities and a cast on my arm took some extra charisma.

The cast is off now. The only signatures on it besides Ahmir's drawing come from the regulars at the Main Gate. I have the pieces in a cardboard box in my closet.

I burst in through the front door and fold my apron down across my body to tie at my waist, crossing the strings around me twice before fastening them. The clock says exactly 6 a.m. I love the morning.

* * *

My plane arrived in Bath very early. The sun was not even up yet. I had spent the interim time between security check-in and boarding trying to doze in a gate chair, and, failing that, sitting on the ground with my back to a pillar, and dozing there. I had nothing worth taking, and besides, I figure that airports are pretty safe places all things said and done—no one has a gun, or even complicated shoes, and no one wants your stuff because they're too focused on having brought too much of their own. At one point I bought a trashy magazine, and read it with relish. I don't mind being shallow if there's a point to it. And here the point is distraction. I kept turning my cast over and over again, making sure that the picture was still there. And it was.

It's confusing, not knowing what to feel. If I had had more energy, maybe I would have spent more time obsessing about it. But I don't have time. And maybe that's the way it should be. When my plane landed, I made my way to the bus stop, and rode the city bus to the apartment my father had bought back when my mother had started having heart problems. The apartment is close to the hospital, which is supposed to be the best on the East Coast. I'm not sure if I believe it. I never did back then.

The morning is a clear one, and as I walked down the street, the sun climbs loped higher into the sky. It was taking its time, and so was I. My fight with Mary notwithstanding, I am not the same person I was when I saw them the last time. I was in no hurry to return to them. But what else can I do? Where else can I go? I have to live in the present now.

The apartment is a huge one, which comes as no surprise. The hallways are wide, and bright, and beautifully decorated. Dark wood tables contrast the cream in the walls, and the entire effect is one of old money, of care, of tradition, of taste. Seeing it now, I understand it better than I did when I was younger. I understand much more than I did back then. Which I guess is the consolation prize for being older.

The entire place seems so much smaller than I remember it. This front hallway used to be like the Champs-Elysees in my imagination, the dining room like the one in Beauty and the Beast. I've made a picture in my mind of this apartment, this city, which calls to play all the bad imagery from all the movies I seen and the books I'd read. Reality is less fantastic, certainly, than imagination, but the details are more interesting.

I closed the door behind me quietly, and set my bags down as best I could. I could hear people talking in the parlor, and I made my way there silently. As I got closer, I recognized my father's voice, talking softly. Through the doorway, I could see him sitting very close to Hope Clay, his body turned toward hers, his eyes on her face.

_So_. I thought. _I'm away for a month and this is what I come back to?_ A lot can happen in a month, I supposed. Especially if it's forced to happen.

At any other moment, with any other people, I might have stepped aside and let them continue doing what they were doing. But not now. I knocked on the door frame, and they jumped up out of their seats.

"Hey Dad," I said, nonchalantly.

"Anne! What—what are you doing here?" He fumbled with his clothes, straightening them. Hope fixed me with a wide smile, one that I returned. "And what happened to you? You look terrible."

"Thanks, Dad. Where's Elizabeth?"

"Oh, she's out. She'll be back soon." He offered me a seat, and I took it, relishing, for a brief moment, the power I had to dictate where this conversation was going. I told the entire story of Louisa's accident, and Hope clucked approvingly, while my father sat across from me, apparently bewildered at my very existence.

A little later, the front door opened again, and Elizabeth's voice could be heard. She was giggling. She never giggles. Then a man's voice, one I didn't recognize. Or…wait.

They turned into the living room, and there he was. The blonde man from the beach. Elliot Williams. He stopped in his tracks as he saw me, his eyes wide with surprise, and then, slowly, a small smile began to curl itself around his mouth.

My father was saying "Ah, Elliot, how are you?" but stopped as well when he saw Elliot staring at me. "Ah, yes, this is my daughter Anne. Elizabeth's sister."

"We've met, actually," Elliot said, his voice a perfect study of quiet respect. "In Lyme."

My father looked taken aback. Hope looked confused. Elizabeth looked thunderous. I smiled. "Good to see you," I held out my left hand for him to shake, and he did a double-take at my arms, but he politely refrained from comment. "And it's good to finally know your name, Miss Elliot."

* * *

The Main Gate Diner caters to regulars. The tourists who flood the streets in the summer, following the historical routes to all the important buildings, tend to give this little place a wide berth. It looks like a greasy spoon, and could use a better color of paint on the outside, and hasn't been a Bath fixture since 1790. But the food is delicious, and the service, if I may say so, is impeccable. So really, they're missing out.

More important, it keeps me busy, and happily so. It constantly surprises me how much of a difference having a purpose makes in my life. Having a job is refreshing. I'd forgotten how much happier I am when I have something to do every day. The job itself may not be rocket science, but it's friendly, and I'm good at it, and I actually want to go to work every morning, so I'm much less concerned about the glamour of it all. Scrubbing counters is an honest living, and I'd rather be doing this than sitting around watching Dad and Hope dance around each other, or getting dirty looks from Elizabeth. Getting my teeth pulled is more fun than that.

Elliot and I have been hanging out recently. He'll show up at the Main Gate sometimes, or happen upon me as I walk home, and we'll talk. And even though nothing is going on between us, Elizabeth still treats me like I've destroyed her one chance at happiness.

At eleven o'clock on the nose, the front door opens and Rochelle breezes in.

"Oh, Jesus," Jay mutters to me, "Her Majesty is here."

She disapproves of my job the way my father does, but unlike my father she makes an effort to stop by and tell me how much she disapproves. Usually she'll stop in the middle of the floor, take a look around at the people in the place, and then stride toward me, her lips pursed, her eyes snapping. She won't touch the counter. Won't sit in a seat. Sometimes her scruples are exasperating.

But today, she doesn't take the time to telegraph her disdain. Instead, she locates me and comes striding up to me.

"Anne, I have news for you!" Her eyes are alight with triumphant happiness, and in spite of myself, I'm intrigued.

"Hello Duchess," Jay calls from the other side of the counter. "Your usual today? Carrots with a side of steam?" Rochelle ignores him, and pulls me to the side. I set down my coffee pot, just in case she gets a little over excited.

"What is so important, Rochelle?"

"I was at a dinner the other night at the Cartwright's brownstone, and who do you think was there?" She pauses, actually waiting for me to guess.

"Uhh…Steve Tyler?"

"Anne! Be serious!"

"I have no idea. Why don't you tell me?"

"Elliot Williams, of course!"

"Oh, well, of _course_—"

"Let me talk. Elliot and I happened to strike up a conversation, and can you guess what we talked about nearly all the time?"

"I really can't."

"We talked about you, Anne. He was so polite, and so complimentary, and Anne, I have to say that I honestly think he likes you. A lot. And I was thinking that it might be the perfect opportunity to break out of your shell a little. But," she says, holding up a hand as I open my mouth to speak, " you don't have to decide just yet. Just think about it, Anne. He's a good boy from a good family, and he has a secure future. Just think about it." She kisses me on the cheek, and glares at Jay, then leaves.

I pick up my coffee pot and make my rounds again, but I'm distracted.

Date Elliot Williams? Well, it's an idea, I suppose. And all in all, not a completely crazy one. We get along very well. But still—

* * *

I get home in a cloud of confusion. I go to my room in a cloud of confusion. I sit on my bed, and take off my shoes, and lie down, staring at the ceiling, in a cloud of confusion. Time ticks by audibly from the clock on my bedside table. I should take a shower, but I'm already showering in confusion. I should get some dinner, but I'm full of confusion.

Suddenly, my laptop looks promising. I can watch YouTube while confused. I open it up, and almost on autopilot, I check my e-mail. There's one from Charles, which I open immediately. I haven't had any news from them in weeks.

Charles writes:

_Anne-_

_Best news! Lousia had her follow-up today, and the doctor says she'll make a full recovery! It was a little touch-and-go there for a bit, but any adverse effect from the concussion will set itself right soon. _

_More interesting news, on the other hand, is afoot. Louisa is moving out of our house, and will soon be living with her boyfriend. Not sure how they'll work out the home game/away game thing. More info to come._

_Hope everything is good where you are. Write back when you can. Charlie sends his love._

_Love,_

_Charles_

It's a short message, and I read it three times before I fully understand it, and then my knees buckle. I grasp my desk for a moment, regain my balance. It shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. It shouldn't affect me as much as it does. I knew it was coming, didn't I? Didn't I?

Yes, I knew it. _So pull yourself together. You've spent enough time wallowing. Pull yourself together. _

I take one more minute to steady myself, then go and take a shower. I need to do something.

* * *

A/N: I know it's short, and I'm sorry about that. I needed to jumpstart this part, and this little thing was necessary to get out of the way before we go deep into Part Two (which is my favorite part, I have to say). I'm going on a trip tomorrow (!), but I should be able to update. And it should be noted that this is the quickest I have ever updated any of my stories, as people who have read my stuff as it was published will attest. P.S. is there anyone reading this story who read Never Better when it was coming out? That would be really cool.

It should be noted, also, that I am an attention whore, and I do actually write faster when I get reviews. Blame it on being the only girl in a family of boys, I guess. So if you'd like to write a review, please do so. Today I learned that people in Cameroon read my story, and Poland, and Bangladesh, and lots of cool places. The internet is the best, isn't it?


	16. Childhood Ruins

**A charm invests a face  
Imperfectly beheld.  
The lady dare not lift her veil  
For fear it be dispelled.**

**But peers beyond her mesh,  
And wishes, and denies,  
Lest interview annul a want  
That image satisfies.**

-Emily Dickinson, "A Charm Invests a Face"

* * *

Moving to Bath was perhaps the best decision my family ever made, from a purely superficial standpoint. Not only does it save them money in the long run, but it makes them some of the most important—if you measure importance by connections and family standing—people in town. Even after they turned down invitations then didn't show up to things to which they'd RSVP'd, more invitations have come pouring in to this party or to that benefit. I don't understand how the news of their financial ruin hasn't reached Bath, what with the internet and all, but somehow it has miraculously escaped the attention of the social climbing set in Bath that the Elliots are, in fact, completely broke. If Dad and Elizabeth have their way, no one will ever find out.

And so they're happy. Yesterday there was a dinner, tomorrow there's a party, and they're always busy, always doing something, always seeing someone. I guess there's really not that much difference between them and me: we like to be occupied. But I have my job (they don't know where, and I won't tell them—why invite disaster?), not social engagements. I don't have friends here, really.

Elizabeth, my father, and Hope are sleeping. The apartment is silent, blissfully so, and I can hear the sound of traffic off in the distance. Not highway traffic, not rough city traffic, but the steady trickle of high-class cars down narrow, high-class roads. The roads here are as monitored as the hedgerows.

I am eating breakfast in the kitchen. It's my day off, and I'm savoring being up at seven instead of five. The bowl of Cookie Crisp in front of me tastes especially chemically delicious, and I have an individual cup of coffee made from my dad's supposedly-artisanal machine. It has the "aroma of hazelnuts, offering a comforting retreat from everyday life…" but pretty much tastes like regular overpriced coffee.

And okay, I admit it, I'm mulling over what Rochelle told me. Because it troubles me, and I have no idea why it should trouble me. It's not like I'm really going to date him or anything, so the mere fact that he likes me shouldn't be enough to send me into a tailspin. It's not like I haven't had to deal with guys liking me before.

And it wasn't the fact that it was Rochelle who told me about him liking me, either. If Romeo and Juliet were standing in front of her, declaring their love for each other, she would probably purse her lips and insist that Juliet likes Paris better. Sentiment is not her thing. I don't feel obligated to date who she tells me I should date.

And it's not Ahmir, not really. His existence doesn't bear any weight in this matter. And besides, if it did, it would be idiotic, because Ahmir is…Ahmir is…

There's a knock on the door. I start, and then stare at it dumbly for a second, because who comes to visit at 7:45 in the morning? It's ridiculous.

But there's a thing about knocked doors and ringing phones—even if you don't want to answer them, the mystery can pull you in. And so I get up, albeit reluctantly, and open the door.

"Oh good, it's you," Elliot says from where he leans on the door jamb casually. "I didn't want to have to wade through the rest of your family this morning. Did I wake you up?"

I open my mouth, but all the comes out is an "Ooohp" sound. He chuckles. "Can I come in, at least? Or have I done something wrong? Am I not allowed in the Elliot household anymore?"

"Ha ha," I say, backing away from the door. He strolls in after me, hands in his pockets.

"She speaks! Is it too early in the morning for this?" He leans again, this time against the counter where my unfinished bowl of cereal is getting soggy.

"That depends. What is _this_ exactly?"

He reaches into the open box of Cookie Crisp, then grabs a handful. "I'm taking you out, Miss Elliot."

I raise my eyebrows, smiling in spite of myself. "Taking me out? Out where, exactly?"

"How should I know? Who the hell cares? We're getting out of this apartment, and then we'll go…somewhere. Not sure where. I just want to talk to the people I want to talk to, and that's a pretty short list. Basically, it's you, so strap on your shoes, and let's get out of here, okay?" He grabs another handful of cereal ("One for the road") and starts off. I don't follow.

He turns around. "Come on, Anne. I'm not going to seduce you or sell you to for medical experiments or steal your kidneys. We're cool. Now let's go." I slip on my shoes and follow him to the door. He grabs my jacket and flings it behind him. It lands in my face, but I laugh, and we run out the door together.

* * *

I haven't explored Bath. Ever. The last time I was here, I was at the hospital most of the time, and this time I've been preoccupied with work and everything else, and I have to admit, Bath is beautiful. I never knew that before.

The park that we're sitting in now is green and peaceful. There's a Japanese rock garden to our right, and a group of college-age guys playing Frisbee to our left. The occasional mom with her baby carriage strolls past, but it seems to be a refuge from the city, as small as it is.

"Wait, okay, so your father doesn't know about your job yet?"

'Nope."

"When are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know…When he asks me, I guess."

"Unbelievable. Would he be pissed?"

"_So _pissed. He'd disown me probably."

"Then why do it?"

"I like it. It's fun, and I like being busy. Is that enough?"

"I mean, I guess. Well, damn. That's insane."

"I'm an adult, I can work wherever I want."

"Okay, sorry, okay. You're right."

"Thank you."

"But here's the thing: if you're an adult, why can't you just tell him without being afraid?" He's looking at me earnestly, his blonde hair in perfect disarray, his face serious. His question stops me up short, I have to admit. But for some reason, I don't want to admit that he's right. It's only after a minute of searching for a response and failing to find one that I am forced to admit to myself that he _is _right. I frown, perplexed.

He jumps in. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I was just asking."

"Okay."

"It's your life, so you…I mean, you do what you think is right, right?"

"Right."

There's a moment's awkward silence. He leans forward, his eyes searching. "Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad. You're right."

"And that doesn't make you mad?"

"Not really, no." Which is a lie. A surprising lie.

"Okay. Good. Now, I want to do something, do you want to do something? Let's do something."

I smile at his garrulousness. I can't dislike him, that much is clear. He stands up from the bench, and holds out his hand. "Well, my lovely companion, what shall we do next?"

* * *

I have fun with Elliot. Really, I do. And it's just _fun_. There are no complications, no politics, no history. Just two people having a good time.

But I'm finding him hard to read. And I want to read him, so I can understand his intentions. Because I've figured it out, why it is that he disquiets me so much—I can't tell what he wants from me. Does he want to be friends, does he want to be more than friends? I have no idea, and that's strange for me. I can usually read people pretty well, and my utter failure to gain insight into Elliot's personality is unsettling for me. I don't like it.

When I get home, Elizabeth and my father are out. I go to my room, and look around for the first time since I arrived. The walls are covered with pictures I collected when I was thirteen, the chair and desk are small for me. I look at myself in the mirror, which is purple and glittery and has a sticker of a glow-in-the-dark smiley face at one edge. My hair is long and bedraggled, my clothes old and frayed, my face a little tired.

Elliot's right. If I were an adult, I wouldn't be shy about telling my family about my job. I wouldn't really worry about displeasing my dad. If I were an adult, I would take matters into my own hands.

I lift a strand of hair off my cheek, then let it fall. It's long, it's limp. I don't like it. I haven't had a change, a _real_ change, in five years. I haven't made myself change, haven't demanded progress from myself. I've been stuck in one place for half a decade. I figure now's about as good a time as any to grow up.

There is a pair of shears on my desk. I pick them up and test them. Still sharp. I used to cut dolls' hair all the time. Isn't this essentially the same thing? I take a piece, and measure it carefully, then cut it, a little longer than I want it to be. I can always cut more off. The hair falls in a curl at my feet.

No going back now.

* * *

Breaking news: Margaret Dalrymple is in Bath. Not such big news, really, to the rest of the world, but in the Elliot household, there has been talk of little else all week. The matriarch of the steel magnate is among the richest women in the world, and as a result, among the most important. Even more important is that my dad knows her a little through my mother, so there is a connection there that is worth keeping. Or something like that.

It's not very important to me, but "knowing someone important makes the entire Elliot family more important," according to my father, who hasn't said much else for days. We've had lunch with her once—on my second day off, and I couldn't escape—and I found her deathly boring and all in all not worth my time. But Elizabeth, Hope, and my father are enchanted by her and keep waiting for another invitation to arrive. I can't help but hope one never does.

"But why are you so dead-set against her?" Elliot wants to know. " I mean, she's good company." I'm wiping down the counter where he sits, drinking a coffee. Artie, a small man in an all-denim outfit, keeps raising his eyes at me and indicating Elliot, as if he Knows What's Going On. I shake my head at him whenever Eillot's not looking.

"My idea of good company is a group of intelligent people with a lot to talk about and mutual interest in each other," I retort, replacing the napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers, and rearranging the plastic cups on the lower level of the counter.

"Nope. Wrong." He leans forward, waving his spoon in a business-like way. "That's not good company."

"Oh, really?" I flip my rag over my shoulder and lean forward as well. Artie raises his eyebrows. I ignore him.

"Really. That's not good company, that is the _best _company, and if you knew how infrequently it actually happens, you'd probably vomit and die, _Miss _Elliot. Seriously. No," he continues, leaning back to stir his coffee, "good company is a group of people with the same basic understanding of the world, manners, and education, although that's obviously less than necessary."

"That's tragic."

"Think about it. How many times have you spent time with someone when you didn't like them because you _thought you should_? Even you've done it, admit it. Okay, so," he went on when I opened my mouth to disagree, "The Dalrymple isn't much of a person, all things considered, but she's a good person to know. If you ever want to leave the wide world of diner waitressing, it's probably useful to have someone like her to vouch for you in whatever it is you want to do. Think about it."

"Your boyfriend's got a point, Annie," Artie says, raising his orange juice in a salute.

"He's not—" I begin, but Elliot's talking, too. "Thanks, Artie. See? You're the odd lady out, here."

I shrug, focusing on cleaning. After a little time, Elliot clears his throat and says, "That woman who's always with your father, who is she?"

I stop abruptly, and look at him. "Hope? She's…"

"His girlfriend? His wife?"

"Oh, no, she's…well, she's my dad's lawyer's daughter. She's friends with Elizabeth. Why do you ask?"

"Because I can see a way that we think the same."

"Oh, can you?"

"Yeah. We're both a little suspicious of her, of what she wants. Am I right?"

I take a moment to dry my hands. "Maybe."

He settles back in his chair, a charming smile touching his eyes. "I thought so. I like you hair, by the way. It suits you." He goes back to his coffee, and I finish cleaning the counter, thinking hard. It's back again, that troubled feeling, but I don't know why.

I have to think. As if I don't think enough.


	17. Petite Fille Funshine

**Later,  
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets  
you did not do it with a banner,  
you did it with only a hat to  
cover your heart.  
You did not fondle the weakness inside you  
though it was there.  
Your courage was a small coal  
that you kept swallowing.  
If your buddy saved you  
and died himself in so doing,  
then his courage was not courage,  
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.**

-From _Courage_ by Anne Sexton

* * *

The call takes me by surprise, and I conceal it very poorly. I am back from work, footsore and weary, and I have already flopped down on my purple-bedecked bed when the phone rings in the hallway. I wait for a moment, hoping against hope that there's someone else to answer it, but knowing all the while that that's not true. When it's on its fourth ring, I let out a sound like a whimper and haul myself out of bed, tiptoeing on feet that have begun to throb in time to my heart.

"Hello?"

"Anne? Anne Elliot? Is that you?" The voice sounds so familiar, but deeper than I remember, and I fight to place it in time to answer, but I don't.

"It's Megan. Megan Smith. From Exeter." She doesn't sound offended, and suddenly the voice is obvious, and I can't imagine having forgotten it. I grin, my face breaking into a real, genuine smile, and I take the phone with me into my bedroom and flop down on my bed and talk to my old roommate the way I used to talk to my friends when this room was mine, staring up at the stars on the ceiling, and not caring about the time that passed.

Megan was my best friend, once. We had both arrived at Philip's Exeter Academy a day earlier than everyone else, and as such had been assigned the same room. Megan was an excellent ally to have on campus—where I was shy, she was outgoing, but she didn't crave attention. She just liked talking, and talking was what she excelled at. I faltered in that area, especially when it came to gossiping, which she adored, but she never made me feel like I was lacking in any desirable characteristic. We had kept in constant touch during the first few years of college, but when I had stopped taking care of myself, I had gradually stopped calling her, and so it had been a long time.

She doesn't say how she'd tracked me down, but she does want to see me, and I am obviously interested in that arrangement. I take a hasty shower, and comb out my hair where it dries quickly. She won't care what I wear, but I care. I care what I look like when I get there.

I'm deciding between two equally serviceable shirts when I hear my father's voice from the hallway, calling my name. I can hear from the tone that he's angry.

"Anne!"

I step out my door, buttoning the collar of my shirt, which meanders its way down my shoulder. He, Elizabeth, and Hope are standing in the foyer, elegantly turned out and obviously impatient. The look that Hope gives my outfit can only be described as withering.

"Is that what you plan on wearing to Margaret Dalrymple's?" My father asks, indignantly.

"This is what I intend to wear to Megan Smith's." I reply, suddenly defensive. The way they're looking at me makes me angry, as if they would change every last thing about me if they could.

"I told you. We're all invited to dinner at Margaret Dalrymple's house, and we're going."

"I can't. I have plans."

"Plans? What plans could you possibly have that are more important than this."

"I'm going to visit a friend tonight. I haven't seen her for a long time, and tonight was the best night for both of us."

"What friend? Who? What's her name?"

"Megan. Megan Smith, she was my roommate at—"

"Megan Smith? Megan _Smith_? Who the hell is Megan Smith?"

"She's a friend," I repeat, trying very hard not to raise my voice. It's a losing battle. "You three should go without me, have a good time. I'm going to meet Megan."

"How is it possible," my father starts, hands planted on his hips, his head thrust forward like an angry pigeon. "How it is _possible_ that this woman is more important to you than the _most important woman in the country_? Besides Oprah. How is that _possible_?" Hope makes a small noise, a slight exclamation, and retreats to the living room, where she can still hear everything we say, but where she's out of sight.

My father continues, "This is outrageous! You'd rather visit this nobody than commit to a promise you made? Who raised you?"

_One. Two. Three. _

"I never said I'd go, Dad. And yes, I would rather spend my time with my friends."

"All the friends you have," Elizabeth mutters next to me. I pretend not to hear. Well, I try to pretend not to hear.

"She's a good friend of mine, and she's not the only single woman in this city with nothing to distinguish her but her charm and her friendship with the Elliot family." Elizabeth stiffens next to me. There is no noise from the next room. "Now I'm going to finish getting ready. You go and have a good time with Margaret. I hope it's every bit as rewarding for you as you expect it to be." And with that, I go back to my room and quietly close the door. I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, then move calmly to my bed and grab the pillow, bring it to my face, scream into it, replace it, and go to back to preparing myself for going out. It's been a long time since I've taken the time to care what I look like, and I want to make an impression.

* * *

Megan's wheelchair is covered in stickers. My Little Pony, Hello Kitty, and an odd assortment of generic fairies. I don't want to stare, but I do, and she catches me at it several times, until finally she pats the metal chair and smiles wryly at me. I blush, embarrassed at my rudeness.

"Don't freak out," she says, looking at me fondly. "You can look. It's weird, I know."

"When did…I mean, how long have you been in…" I run out of words. How can I dance around a subject that's right in front of me? Should I even try to be delicate about it?

"Two years, give or take. Car accident. I always did drive too fast, didn't I, Funshine?" she uses my old nickname, and I grin back at her. "Slipped on some ice. That's the way it is. I get around pretty well most of the time, but I have some trouble with my muscles sometimes, so Rocio, my caretaker, comes in a couple of times a week, don't you Rochi?"

Rocio smiles at me from where she's pouring us all glasses of water. I offer to help her, but she waves me away impatiently. She and Megan have set up a steady rhythm between them, and Rocio seems largely unsentimental about Megan's predicament. So too is Megan, who is only marginally inconvenienced by it all, if attitude is any judge.

Megan's apartment is like an explosion from a crayon box. The walls are white, but that's the only color they could possibly be to balance the layers of pink, orange, yellow, and lime green that are everywhere. A large mirror on one wall has a waving exchange of hot pink suns and bright blue crescent moons on a sun—yellow background. The couch on which I'm sitting is covered in a rainbow-patterned afghan, and psychedelic pillows are wedged all around me. Potted plants explode from the corners and shoot out in all directions. The kitchen, which I can just see from my perch, is all lime green, with an incongruous bright purple chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"What do you do with your time?" I can't help but ask. I can't believe how down-to-earth she is about it.

"Oh, you know, I knit."

"Knit?"

"Yup. K-n-i-t. That's me. Rocio showed me how to do it, and you would not believe how fun it is. I turn on a movie, or some music, _with_my handy-dandy remote," she shows me yet again her universal remote, of which she is very proud, "and knit away until my fingers bleed. Do you want a sweater? How about a scarf? Is red still your favorite color?"

I burst out laughing at her enthusiasm. She's exactly the way I remember her, only more grounded. I realize again how much I missed her.

"And you? Do you have a favorite color?" I gesture to the décor. Rocio grins behind Megan, shaking her head at me and grimacing.

"Oh, I'm egalitarian when it comes to that sort of thing," Megan waves away the implication. "As long as they're bright, I really don't give a shit. Pardon my expression, by the way," she adds, tipping a pretend hat in a salute, "I just really like saying 'shit,' it's satisfying to say." I smile back at her, shrugging. She always thought I didn't swear for moral reasons, it was the one opinion of my character that never faltered.

"Speaking of red, how are things with Elliot Williams?" Megan asks as Rocio hands water around and settles down herself. Both of them turn their eyes on me with identical expressions of innocent curiosity.

"How do you—"I start, then shut my mouth. Anything I say right now will be incriminating, one way or the other. I change tactics. "What do you mean, speaking of red?"

Megan smirks, then fakes a terrible French accent. "But of course, my angel, red is ze coleur of passion!" she giggles, then jerks her head at Rocio, who is smiling an impish smile. "Rocio takes care of other people around the city, and I have to say that for such a drama-free queen like you, you're making a lot of noise in the society set."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Mon amie. Rocio keep telling me these stories about what people are saying about you two. And I have to say, that knitting aside, gossip is my favorite pastime. And with Rochi here it's like I have a personal US Weekly all the time."

Rocio, who seems to be reserved in company, just smiles her impish smile and raises her glass. I smile back, but I'm dying of embarrassment and curiosity at once. I don't ask. I won't ask.

But Megan knows me too well. She sees it in my face. "You want to know what they're saying about you, don't you?" I don't answer. "Well, they're saying…Rochi, you tell it best." Rocio leans forward, as if imparting a great secret, and I can't help but lean forward, too.

"I take care of General Wallis, who has acute renal failure, and his wife just talks talks talks all the time, like a parrot, you know? Well, she went to a party, and met Elliot and a friend, and well General Wallis says that his wife says that Elliot says that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and that he is crazy for you. That's what I hear."

"You're spending time with him? Lots of time?" Megan seems deeply interested. She's leaning forward in her wheelchair, her eyes narrowed a bit. I am deeply uncomfortable.

"A little. We're friends, that's all. There's nothing else between us."

"Uh huh," Megan says, disbelieving. Rochi looks unimpressed. "Just be careful, Petite Fille, okay?" She doesn't elaborate.

I can't answer. I don't know what to say. I look around the room for something else to talk about, but there's nothing. But there's water in my hand, and I drink it. You're supposed to drink eight glasses a day.

* * *

Walking home, I have a lot to think about. What is it that makes everyone in the entire world want me and Elliot to get together? Why is it that the larger Bath metropolitan area is taking a sudden interest in my love life? And why Elliot, of all people?

It's inescapable. If a woman talks to a man, they're having an affair. If they're platonic friends, then they've been denying their mad love for each other for years. And any denial of that well-proven fact only counts as indirect admission of guilt. So I can't walk around in a park with a man, or serve him coffee in the diner, without the General Wallis with the acute renal failure finding out and talking about it.

I'm angry, but more than that, I'm puzzled. Why am I so interesting, all of a sudden? I've never been the object of gossip before, because I've never done anything worth gossiping about, really. And I prefer it that way. How is it that suddenly, I am interesting enough to merit all of this attention? And how is what I do any of anyone else's business?

I'm not angry at Megan. I don't have it in me to be angry at Megan, and she needs to have entertainment now. Now, I'd rather not be the source of that entertainment, but still. I can't want her to be occupied and then complain about the manner of that occupation. That would be hypocritical.

But still. Since when is watching what other people do with their lives a valid use of one's own life? And passing judgment on that life, on the choices that person makes, which, even to the keenest observer, must be taken out of context?

I've fallen prey to that judgment, time and again. And, I admit, I've judged others in my turn. But I feel oddly constricted, like an ant in an ant farm, now that I know that I've been watched by other people when going about my daily business. All this time that I've been content, and busy, and focusing on change, all this time, people have been commenting about me behind me back.

Megan, at least, has the decency to tell me what they're saying. And my family, for all their faults, don't shy away from expressing their displeasure to my face. But those are people who are close to me, who have direct contact with me, and who have a way of measuring (however feeble) by some other measure than by the general whim of the world. They are some of the people I would expect to judge my life. But General Wallis and his wife, of whom I have heard only one or two things and nothing very much either time, are educated enough on my life that they can tell other people who I went out with and when. And Rocio, while nice, is not a close friend, or even an acquaintance before today, and she's heard gossip about me, too.

I understand the rules of the world I live in. I understand them, and for the most part I uphold them. They make sense to me, they make my life and the culture I live in make sense to me. I'm not revolutionary, I'm not counter-cultural. But sometimes what I want and what is normal are so at odds that I can hardly breathe, and I don't consider myself to be very demanding. All I want is a small corner of the world that is my own, and no one else's. I'd like to be able to walk freely down the street, say hello to whomever I want, spend time with whomever I want (or avoid whomever I want) without getting feedback from the wide selection of people I don't know.

Dad and Elizabeth may have already heard about my job. I haven't told them, not yet. I was waiting for the right time, under the impression that no one care enough to know what I do with my time.

Oh well. I have a response to that, as well. Or will do soon.

The intersection I stop at has a full bin of free newspapers. I open it up to the classifieds section, and start looking for apartments. Tomorrow will be a new day, I suppose. And then the next day after that. In tiny baby steps.

* * *

A/N: I just realized today how long I've been writing/not writing this story. When I first thought about doing this adaptation, I was finishing up Never Better, and working in a sandwich shop in my town. A lot of scenes (most of which didn't make it to the final cut of the story) were developed while doing some mindless task in the kitchen.

I'm really sorry it's taken so long. I'd like to have a better excuse than my own laziness (after all, it's based entirely on another work, it shouldn't be that hard to write, right?) but I don't have much. I'm just glad everyone who reads it seems to like it. And if you don't like it, you haven't told me. No news is good news.

Have a good weekend, and thanks again for reading!


	18. Outside the Sun is Shining Brightly

A/N:This will be my last note until the end, I promise. I wanted to point out to anyone interested that I've changed my homepage to my travel blog, so if anyone wants to read my essays, they're available at this moment.

**You'll love me yet!-and I can tarry****  
****Your love's protracted growing:****  
****June reared that bunch of flowers you carry****  
****From seeds of April's sowing.**

**I plant a heartful now: some seed****  
****At least is sure to strike,****  
****And yield-what you'll not pluck indeed,****  
****Not love, but, may be, like!**

**-Robert Browning You'll Love Me Yet! - and I Can Tarry**

**

* * *

**

The piece of paper in my hands is wrinkled, and slightly stained from the sweat from my palms. I've been holding it in front of me like a benediction for the last hour, and have crossed out three of the five options that are in my price range and looked good online. Maybe I'm untrusting, but I like it when there are pictures. Blame it on my generation's love of instant gratification.

So far, one apartment is circled, with a question mark next to it. The apartment in question is small, of course, but bright and clean-smelling, and only a slightly longer walk to work than what I do now. The next apartment, which had a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS in the advertisement, is ten minutes farther away. I have an appointment to see it, but it's not for an hour, and I waffle for a moment, trying to think of what else I can do to pass the time.

"Anne!" I turn sharply, cut out of my reverie by a familiar voice. Adam Croft, coach of the US soccer team, is waving at me from across the street. I start, then stare, then smile and wave back enthusiastically.

"Adam?"

"Get over here!" I wave a thanks at the car that stops to let me jaywalk, and I'm across the road in a flash—well, I run, anyway—and hugging Adam. He returns my hug enthusiastically.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, stepping back and looking up into his weathered, kindly face. He's smiling down at me warmly. I'm glad to see that he's glad to see me, as narcissistic and self-serving as that sounds.

"Where are you headed?" he asks me. "Can you take some time out for some coffee? I was going to find a café nearby while Nadya finishes wrangling our short-term rental apartment into order." He offers me his arm and I take it gladly.

"I was actually just thinking about how I could spend my time. I have an appointment in an hour, but I'd love to grab some coffee with you."

We head off, and I direct us to a small hippie-centric café called Java Moods, which is decorated on the inside by pictures of African villages and charcoal drawings of coffee cups and words scribbled on the walls in Sharpie from old customers. I could have brought him to the diner, but it's my day off, and I think he'd get a kick out of this place. He does.

"What's wrong with your rental?" I ask as he reads the obscure free verse on the side of his coffee mug.

"It's the large suite, and we have a lot of people staying there in the next couple of weeks, so she wanted to rearrange things with Mrs. Musgrove. I am, it seems, detrimental to the process." He says it genially, as if he takes no offense whatsoever at having terrible taste or poor rearrangement ideas. "It has to be able to fit us all in without making us want to kill each other."

"Why so many people?" I ask, amused.

"They wanted to have the engagement party here, although it would have been just as good in the Berkshires. Though this is less expensive, apparently."

I trace the line of the mug handle for a second, focusing on my breathing. _You knew this was happening. _"Engagement party."

"Yes," he says, as if I had forgotten my own name. His face clears for a second, and he leans forward. "Nobody told you?"

I think of Mary, still angry at me. I think of Charles, determined to please his wife. And then I think of Louisa, who I barely know anymore. "No, they didn't tell me."

"Well, that's something. It was all very sudden, you understand. None of us saw it coming."

I raise my eyebrows. "No? Well, _engagement _is a bit fast, I suppose, but—"

"Not just the engagement, but the whole thing. It's unlike him to be so secretive."

I swallow. Breathe. "He never told you that he was…I mean, he never talked about his intentions to you?"

"Nope. Not once. But I guess things like this are bound to be secretive. And we all thought, at least, Nadya and I thought that it was going to end up differently. Still, Ahmir isn't one to hold a grudge. He's agreed to be Ben's best man and everything."

I sit frozen for a millisecond that stretches into eternity. Then, carefully, as if my tongue were made of glass, I open my mouth and say, "Ben?"

Adam wrinkles his brow, looking at me from across the table. My heart refuses to beat, but I feel a pounding in my ears, in my lungs, in my brain. "Yes. Ben and Louisa."

"_Ben _and Louisa. Ben and _Louisa_?" I say, trying with all my might to remain calm and contained. I keep my voice down, at least. No one looks at us, or just at me, where I sit frozen to my seat. My brain is hurting with the strangeness of it.

"Yeah," he's smiling now, but a look of frustration is crossing his face as well. "You mean no one told you about that, either?"

I shake my head dumbly, my mouth slightly open. I'm too surprised to speak. I take a deep breath to steady myself, annoyed that I hide the effect this news has on me so poorly.

"Ben and Louisa are getting married. Not soon, I don't think. At least, not as soon as the engagement party. Which is in a week," he says, looking directly into my eyes as if chastising an unruly child, "and we all expect you to be there."

"Ben and Louisa?" I say again, dumbfounded. He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I know. It's strange, isn't it? We all thought Ahmir was the one for her, even if she's young. They definitely seemed to like him best. But after the accident, she and Ben started spending more time together. He would bring books in for her, and read to her—"

"Poetry," I say, a little hiccup of hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat. "He read her poetry."

"Exactly. And I guess she was in just the right state of mind for that to work on her, and God knows he was ready to have someone fall in love with him. So there we are."

"And is—and is Ahmir alright about it? Is he angry?"

"Not at all. Which is the weird bit. You'd think he'd be a little disappointed, but he cooked them dinner and hugged them both, and when they were gone he had nothing but good things to say about the two of them together. The way he talked, you'd think he never thought about Louisa in any other way besides friendship. So Ben and Louisa are engaged, and Ahmir is _still _ single, and we're all going to be together in less than a couple days. In fact," he says, checking his phone, "most of them are arriving in four hours or so, and Ahmir should be here a little later. He hasn't really told us what day yet."

I sit back in my chair, my heart beginning to beat again and making up for lost time. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to respond like a normal person, but the door opens and Nadya steps in. She's every bit as regal and as beautiful as she was before, but when she sees the expression on my face, a rare grin appears, and she looks from Adam to me and back.

She does know. I was wondering if she did. She nods, just so slightly, and I have to look away. Adam turns around to see her approaching, and gets up to greet her as if they haven't seen each other in days. I take that moment to blink away the tears that have gathered in my eyes unbidden, wiping my eyes as best I can with the back of my hand, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Drinking coffee, which does not calm me down.

Nadya sits down at the table, and leans in toward me. I'm glad she refrains from touching me, because I feel as if I _will _burst into tears at the least provocation, and a sympathetic hand on my shoulder would probably break me in a matter of seconds.

"Have you heard the good news?" she says quietly, as Adam runs to the counter to order her a drink.

I can only manage a nod. She smiles again, this time tenderly. "It is good news, isn't it?"

I nod again, breathing carefully. In, and out, and in, and: "Very. I'm glad for them both."

"Aboslutely," she says, turning to accept the drink from Adam as he sits down. They start talking, but it's as if they're speaking in a language I only half understand. I join in half-heartedly until it's time for my appointment, and I get up quickly, grateful for a reason to move and exercise.

The apartment it so beautiful, so gloriously bright, that I agree to it on the spot. I've never seen a place as wonderously lovely in my entire life.

* * *

Jay is done for the day. He takes off his apron, checking the pockets to make sure there's nothing in them that shouldn't be. It's pouring outside, and he swears violently, so quietly that only I can hear. "It's pouring, man." He says, leaning on one hand on the counter. "Do you want me to come pick you up at the end of your shift? You don't want to have to walk in this."

I look outside, at the enormous puddles forming on the sidewalk and in the gutters. I smile, and turn back to him. "Don't worry about me. I've got my boots."

"You're insane," he says, shaking his head. "You sure? It's not out of my way, and I don't want you getting pneumonia and dying or anything. You're my best waitress."

"That's a dirty lie and you know it. No, go home. I'll be fine, I promise." He punches me lightly on the shoulder, and I punch him back, picking up a rag to wipe down the nearest table, recently vacated by a paunchy out-of-towner in a fishing hat.

The bell rings on the counter, and I turn to see Artie leaning over, tapping it to get my attention. I cast him an exasperated look, and he puts on an innocent face. "Garcon? Oh, garcon?"

"You do know that garcon means boy, right?" I say, throwing the rag across my shoulder and coming over to stand in front of him. Next to him, John Reed (referred to by all who know him by his full name) shakes his head at me.

"He just likes having your attention."

"Is your boyfriend coming today?" Artie says, leaning forward on his elbows.

"My who?"

"Your boyfriend. The blonde kid. Not good enough for you. Elliot."

"Not my boyfriend, and none of your business. Did you want something?" I say, casting a glance down at the one cup of coffee he's been nursing for an hour or so. John Reed snorts, shaking his head.

"He looks like your boyfriend, and he quacks like your boyfriend," says Artie, with a knowing smile. I roll my eyes, planting my hand on my hip.

"Either order something or shut up, Artie."

He orders one of the all-day breakfast sandwiches without even looking at the menu. I send it back to Amelia, the tattooed cook, and continue cleaning up after mister out-of-town. As I turn to get new glasses to put on the table, I see a figure hurrying down the street, hunched under a black umbrella. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze for a second, staring stupidly out the window. There's no reason I should know it's him, absolutely none, but it is him. I can tell. The way he walks, the way he carries himself. It's definitely him. He walks past the diner and out of my line of sight. I look down at my hands, full of glasses, and start myself up again, slowly, sluggishly.

He's here. It's been exactly three days since I saw Adam, and now Ahmir is here. In the same city. And I will see him. My heart lifts with happiness and with a strange sort of pride. I didn't collapse this time. I did what was right this time.

Part of my wants to run after him, but I don't know what I would say. What could I say? How would I act? Would he want to see me?

Amelia knocks on the wall next to the window where I place the orders, our compromise after I almost went insane from the infernal sound of the service bell. I go to grab Artie's plate, and I hear the door open, and boots being wiped against the mat. I hand Artie his plate, and pour a woman at the end of the counter another cup of coffee.

"Annie!" Artie calls down to me. "There's no sausage!"

"You have high blood pressure, Artie. Just be glad they aren't egg whites. Although I can make that happen." He makes a gagging sound, and I laugh, grabbing the fresh coffee pot and making my way to the new customer, who's sitting in the booth nearest the door.

When I look up to greet him, I stop in my tracks, coffee swishing dangerously around in the pot.

He's staring at me with equal astonishment, his eyes opened wide, his lips together. The umbrella on the floor is sopping wet, and the bottom of his jeans are soaked to the knee. But he's beautiful. He's oh, _so_ beautiful. Ahmir's always been beautiful.

I find that, in fact, I do know what to say.

"Would you like some coffee?"

He stares at me for a moment longer, then opens his mouth, then looks at his coffee mug, upside down on the table. Then he turns back to me.

"You cut your hair."

I blink, half amused and half terrified by this non sequitor. "Yes."

"I like it. It's, umm, what do they call them, the short ones?" He looks terrified, too.

"A bob?" I guess. I haven't moved.

He points at me as if I've just answered the million-dollar question, then says, "That's the one." It should be noted that he says it rather lamely.

We stare at each other for a moment longer.

"Hey, Annie!" Artie shouts from the counter. "Is _this _your boyfriend?"

"Shut up, Artie!" I yell back, not daring to look at the counter, not daring to look at Ahmir.

"Do you want to sit down?" Ahmir gestures to the seat in front of him. "Or, I guess you shouldn't. Are you working?" I look around at the mostly-empty diner. John Reed and Artie watching us with interest, the woman at the end reading the newspaper.

"It's okay," I say, putting the coffee pot down on the table. It's enormous, and full of hot coffee, and it's distracting to both of us, directly in between us. Ahmir smiles first, and I laugh. I push it to the side, and we look at each other, still smiling. But we say nothing.

The silence stretches.

"How is your family?" He finally asks, which is digging a little deep in the conversation barrel.

I raise an eyebrow. "They're fine. Thank you for asking."

"And how are you?" watches me intently.

I smile again. I love him so much, it's physically painful.

"I'm doing well. Really well."

"You're working here? How long?"

"A little over a month and a half now." He smiles broadly.

"That's amazing."

I lean forward on my elbows, and shrug. Then I think better of it, and I nod, and say "Thank you. Nobody else thinks so."

"Well, I'm not everybody else." The words hang in the air for a second, and I can't look at him. I can't look away either.

"How are you?" I ask finally.

"I'm well. I'm, uh—" he stops for a second, then collects himself, and says, "I guess you've heard about Louisa and Ben."

I watch him. I'm waiting for a sign that he's angry or disappointed. None comes. "I have heard about it, yes."

"I think they'll be good together. She's a little young, but," he says rapidly, eyes on my face, "but she's nice, and smart, and—" he stops, collects himself, "I think he'll be good for her, too."

We look at each other from across the table. There's so much I want to say, so much I can't bring myself to say. Not yet.

"It's good to see you," he says, quietly. My heart speeds up, and I clench my hands in my lap so I can stop them from shaking, but it just makes the shaking worse. I'm about to answer him when the door opens, and Mike, the waiter with the shift after mine, steps in. He doesn't blink when he sees me sitting across the table from a customer.

"Annie, you're off the hook," he says jovially. "You can go home." I look from him to Ahmir and back. Ahmir's face is blank; he doesn't give me one indication either way about which way I should go.

"Okay," I say, standing up. Mike makes his way behind the counter and puts on an apron.

"Do you have a car?" Ahmir is suddenly standing next to me.

"Umm, no." I say, looking outside and back at him, and struggling with the ties to my apron.

"Here," he says, moving my shaking hands away from the knot. His hands go to my waist, and he stands close, close enough to feel the heat off his body. Close enough to make me shiver. He undoes the knot deftly, in a second, then gathers up the apron and hands it to me. I hold it in my hands so tightly that it's probably wrinkled from my grasp alone.

"Thanks." I move to get my jacket, stowing my apron under the counter. I move uncertainly toward the door. I don't want to leave. I should leave.

I don't want to leave him.

"You're not walking, are you?" He sounds incensed by the very idea of it.

"Yeah, I guess so," I say, peering out the window, then looking back at him. I don't move. He doesn't move.

"But it's raining."

"Not that much," I say, and it's true that the rain has eased up a little from the torrential downpour it was before. "It doesn't bother me."

"Well, then here," he says, picking up his umbrella, still wet, and putting it into my hands. "I've come prepared for fall here. Take it."

"But it's yours," I say, stupidly. "You'll get wet."

"It doesn't bother me." We stand looking at each other for a moment, then I put both hands on the handle.

"Thank you. But you still shouldn't get soaked because of me." The door opens behind me.

"Well I _could_ always—" he's cut off by a voice from the door.

"Oh, good, I didn't miss you, Anne." I turn around, surprised to see Elliot standing in the door. He's only damp. He must have driven. "I was worried that you'd set out on your own, and we'd be dragging the river for your body. Come on, get in the car, I'm taking you home," he looks over at Ahmir, gives him a quickly, smiling once-over, nods a hello, and says "How's it going?"

I stammer an introduction between the two of them. They shake hands.

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Miss Elliot. If you get the flu, it won't be on my watch." He holds the door open for me.

There's no way I can refuse him politely. I turn to Ahmir, whose face is blank once again. A muscle twitches in his cheek. I try to smile ruefully at him, and I shrug, and I hand him back his umbrella. How can you say what you want to say? How can you even begin?

"Thanks anyway, Cap." His nickname, _my _nickname for him comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, and his eyes flash to mine for just a second before Elliot ushers me out the door.

In his Porsche, I curse myself for being weak. I curse Ahmir for being confusing, I curse Elliot for coming at just the wrong time, I curse the rain for raining, and I curse myself again and again and again for not saying what I should have said. For not saying what I've been telling myself I would tell him, if I had the chance.

I love you. I love you. I love you.


	19. Dissonance in Speaking

**SWEETHEART, do not love too long:**

**I loved long and long,**

**And grew to be out of fashion**

**Like an old song.**

**All through the years of our youth**

**Neither could have known**

**Their own thought from the other's,**

**We were so much at one.**

**But O, in a minute she changed-**

**O do not love too long,**

**Or you will grow out of fashion**

**Like an old song.**

_Wlliam Butler Yeats. "O Do Not Love Too Long" is reprinted from In the Seven Woods. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1903._

_

* * *

_

When I finish speaking, Rochelle stares at me as if I've lost my mind. It didn't begin promisingly, this conversation that was really more of a monologue, and so far I am unconvinced as to my success. She remembers to shut her mouth, which had been gaping open just slightly, and shakes herself a little, almost imperceptibly. She picks up her lemon water and takes a careful sip, gazing in vacant interest at the clock.

I've gotten her to sit down on one of the diner stools, a compromise which took five minutes to solidify. I had to show her the bottle of disinfectant I used on the clean rag to kill any germs that happened to be lingering on the stool of the perfectly clean diner, and then I had to wait while she made sure, from every angle, that the disinfectant had been sufficiently dried so as not to stain or damage her clothing. Jay, watching, almost exploded. I am almost certain that this will be the last time she is welcome in the Main Gate.

As she wipes down the ring of water left by her sweaty glass, my patience wears thin. "Well? Say something."

She looks at me hopelessly, then shrugs helplessly. "What do you want me to say, Anne?"

I put the rag down and shrug, too, leaning back against the service counter. I cross my arms in front of my chest, determined to face this head-on. "We can start by what you think about what I just told you."

"Well, what you just told me makes me think things you don't want to hear," she says, her voice rising just slightly, so that she's snapping at me in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. I wait, unblinking. She stares me down for a moment, then sighs again and relents. "I think you're being hasty. That's what I think."

I wait. I swallow what I want to say and I wait for her to finish.

She continues. "I think this is not what your mother would want for you. I think this is the best way to alienate your entire family, and it's the best way for them to feel allowed to make bad decisions. You moving out of their house for good is the first step toward total ruination for them. That's what I think."

I nod for a second, then take a moment to process what she said. My response, when I give it, is short. "Thank you for being honest with me." I pick up the rag and start wiping down the counter.

"You're not upset, are you?" Rochelle says, leaning across the counter carefully to place a hand on my arm.

"No, I'm not," I respond, and I'm surprised to find that it's the truth. Not so very long ago I would have been so distraught to have her disagree with me, I probably would have cancelled my lease on the spot. I marvel at how much I needed her then. How much I don't want to need anyone now.

And they say people can't change.

Do I count as an old dog, do you think? Or am I still in the age range to learn new tricks?

"I'm not angry," I add, standing up straight, her hand still on my arm. "I just have to do what I have to do. And I'd like for you to respect that. If you could."

She regards me levelly. "This has nothing to do with him, does it?" She knows about Ahmir. I told her this morning.

"No. It doesn't. Even if you don't believe me. This has to do with me, and what I need. This is all about me, okay?"

"Okay," she says, as if she's just humoring me, and doesn't really believe I'm telling the truth. She has a knowing look on her face, the kind I have come to have no patience for. "When are you going to tell your father?" She asks next, picking up her water glass again.

I fix her with a grin. "Actually, you were the practice run."

Adam and Nadya's apartment is full of people. I had to knock on the door three times to be heard at all above the noise, and upon being let in had to push my way past stacks of suitcases and shopping bags and a row of shoes.

It's Harry who answers the door, and I'm pleased to see that he's sans brace now. He's walking with a cane, but his limp is much less pronounced than before. When he sees it's me, a large, unexpected smile crosses his face, and he opens his free arm for a hug.

"Anne! Good to see you!" I return his hug warmly, then gesture down at the leg. "Your knee's better?"

He smiles his reckless smile, and shrugs, moving out of the way to let me in the crowded hallway. "After the accident, there wasn't a lot of cause for me to play tour guide. Plus Nikki threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn't take the doctor seriously."

"Kinky." His laugh is a burst of surprise, and he stares at me for a moment, wide-eyed before breaking out in a full-belly roar. I stop to watch him, a bemused smile on my face. "You say things like that?" he asks when he's calmed down enough to speak.

I grin back at him, and shrug mysteriously. "How do you know I don't say them all the time?"

He shakes his head. "I really don't. You're enigmatic at best, Anne Elliot," he claps his hand on my shoulder, and shakes it playfully. "It's good to have you back. And it's nice to see your arm's not in a sling."

I'm interrupted from whatever I'm going to say next by a body hurtling at me from the living room. "Anne! Anne!" I can't tell who it is, and if Harry doesn't mouth "Louisa" to me, it would have taken me significantly longer to find out. I hug her back, as she seems reluctant to let me go.

"Hey, buddy." She pulls back from me finally, and I look her in the face for the first time. She's thinner, and there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before, a sort of sadness. Also missing, rather blatantly, are the bright colors and latest fashions she used to wear. Now she sticks to neutral basics. But she's walking, and she's talking , and that in and of itself is pretty amazing. "You look great." It's the truth.

She's looking at me in much the way I just regarded her. The wonder on her face is heartening, if a little insulting. "So do you. You look amazing!"

"Anne? Is that you?" Mrs Musgrove calls from the next room. I'm ushered into the crowded living room, which, while large, is still straining to host all the people located within it. Mr and Mrs Musgrove are sitting on the couch at one end of the room, while Mary and Charles take up two armchairs. Ben is standing by the windows, Adam and Nadya are on the loveseat, Hen is walking in from the kitchen, and Ahmir and Charlie are playing on the floor. Ahmir catches my eye for a moment, and I smile at him, which he returns hesitantly.

"Anne!" Hen puts down the glasses of water she was carrying and comes over to hug me enthusiastically. Ben is right behind her, and he picks me up and twirls me for good measure. I'm so taken aback all I can do is laugh, if a little awkwardly, when I'm back on my feet.

"Hello, everyone! How are you all?"

I greet them each by turn. I'm nervous for Charles and Mary's response to my being here, but I don't need to be. Mary hugs me inattentively and regales me with stories of her woes in the past months. I can't expect much more from her, and it's good to know I'm not out of their lives for good. Charlie interrupts his game of memory with Ahmir to give me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, and Adam winks at me from across the room.

It's all noise and bustle here, and I like it. I realize that besides Elliot and my coworkers, I haven't really been spending much time with people my own age. It's nice to be surrounded by the warm, by the familiar. I missed it. And it should be said that I bask in it because I'm dreading this evening, what the dinner conversation will bring.

Sometime within the first hour that I'm there, Louisa sits down next to me from where I'm unabashedly watching Ahmir chant "Trot trot to Boston" at my nephew, and leans toward me, speaking quietly.

"Anne, can I talk to you for a second?" she sounds upset, and I turn to face her, frowning concernedly.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that I have something I need to say to you, and it really shouldn't have taken me this long to say it, and I'm sorry that it has." I raise my eyebrows, smiling at this long explanation.

"Okay. Shoot."

"I am _so_ sorry for how I treated you those last couple of weeks. Even if some of it was unintentional, not all of it was, and you didn't deserve that. I'm so ashamed of myself, I just wanted to apologize to you officially. Formally, you know. You and Hen took the worst of it, and I couldn't stand it if it ruined our friendship forever. You don't have to forgive me, but I did want you to hear it." She finishes her speech, her hands in her lap, and watches me for a second until I nod, for lack of anything else to do. She makes to stand up, but I stop her. "Of course I forgive you. Thank you." She smiles at me, the traces of tears in her eyes, which I admit I've never seen before, and hugs me again. She gets up to find a tissue, and I turn back to Ahmir, only to find him watching me, a small smile hovering around his mouth. For a moment, I can't do anything but stare, and then I start to smile back, when my phone rings.

I jump and dig it out of my pocket. The name ELLIOT blares across the screen, and I mutter a curse under my breath. I look up at Ahmir, and I see that he knows who it is. He focuses his attention on Charlie, and I stand up and walk to the hallway to answer the phone.

"Anne, my darling, my joy, my angel cake, how's it going?" I roll my eyes, even though he can't see.

"Great," I deadpan. He laughs.

"Fabulous. Listen, I wanted to tell you first, since I wasn't sure if your family would clue you in in time, but there's a benefit concert on Friday night for local music programs, and—"

"Yeah, I know, my dad told me yesterday."

"Oh," the wind has been quite literally put out of his sails for a moment, but he rallies triumphantly. "Well, I got you a ticket, too. Just in case of, you know, a terrible ticket emergency or something. It's in your name at the box office, so you can do what you want with it. Scalp it, see how much you get." He sounds every bit as bright and cheery as he does at every other instance, and I find myself perversely wanting to know if anything actually bothers him. Not that I want my absence to bother him, but still.

That's not what I'm talking about, here.

I hang up with him, and turn to go back into the living room. Charlie crashes into my knees before I make it through the door. He holds up a pair of memory cards for my inspection (a walrus and an elephant), and I exclaim the appropriate amount of wonder at them.

Ahmir steps in behind him, and leans against the door jamb, hands in his pockets. "Fun plans?" He asks it nonchalantly, but I look at him levelly. They say honesty is the best policy.

"I'm going to a concert on Friday night, a benefit thing. Black tie optional. I have an extra ticket, and if you want to come, it's yours."

"I don't have a tux."

"I hear you can rent one these days." My amusement at his misdirection is only slightly outstripped by my frustration at his inability to give me a straight answer. Isn't it obvious, how I feel? "Do you want to come?"

"I wouldn't be bothering you?"

I frown. "No, why would you bother me?"

"Who else is going?"

I hesitate. _Honesty_. "My father, my sister Elizabeth, Hope Shepherd, and a couple other people. Elliot included. You met him the other day."

"Yes, I did."

"So, do you want to come?"

He stops for a second, opens and closes his mouth. Then his face becomes unexpressive, and he says, "Can I let you know?"

My annoyance surges, as does my disappointment. He is the one person in the world for whom I would like an invitation from me to be irresistible. The fact that it seems he can resist me is embarrassingly upsetting.

I'm not a temptress, but I would like to be tempting. To him, at least.

"Okay, well I'll tell the box office it's reserved for you, and if you wind up being able to come, the more the merrier." I make to step back into the living room, but he puts out a hand to stop me.

"What time is it on Friday?" His voice his low, his eyes locked on mine.

"Eight. The Palladium."

"I'll do everything I can to be there."

It's still not a promise. But it's better than nothing. I go back and join the others, and Ahmir does the same seconds later, hoisting Charlie up onto his shoulders and running him around like an airplane.

I stay for an hour or so more before I finally get up the courage to go home. This really can't wait any longer, and I'm a coward for having put it off for so long. Rochelle's censure comes back to me, and I am momentarily unsure of how I'm going to present the idea to my family. I had thought I had laid it out in such a way that it was impervious to criticism. Well, we saw how that went. But I _am _moving out. And I _am _going to tell them.

Once again, I think of the fact that only a few years ago, I might have changed my plans to please Rochelle, and I'm struck by the waste of it. Rochelle is my oldest friend. She has been a mother to me, or as close as I'm going to get, for years and years. Wanting her approval is normal. Listening to her advice, and making decisions with any of her reservations in mind is normal. _Needing_ her to sign off on my life plans, being unable to make decisions without her, that is not.

I was so young, once. How is it that you can be young and feel old at the same time?

* * *

A word to the wise: Dinner is not the best time for important conversations. They should be held in the living room, where you can sit face-to-face and there's room for someone to stomp up and down while deliberating. There is also, in general, no large, long dinner table to bang one's fist on.

Which is what my father is doing at this moment, to punctuate the words, "traitorous ingrate," which I have to admit is a rather marvelous combination, one which I would not have given him credit for.

I wait until he's done pounding on the table, though when he's done with that particular activity, he leans forward to try and stare me down. I admit it, I am slightly cowed by this unusual show of real physical anger. He used to say that anger was the "ugly emotion," because he gets red and puffy around the face and neck.

He's red and puffy around the face and neck.

"I'm almost twenty-six, Dad. I should be out on my own."

"Your sister is twenty-nine!" he points out, while also pointing at Elizabeth, who is taking in this conversation with unusual attention. She frowns when he says her age, but she does nothing to interrupt the proceedings.

I would be captivated, too, if it weren't my life.

"It's just what I need to do," I say patiently. There's no point in getting angry. I put down my fork, determined not to fiddle with my peas when discussing my future. "It's for me, Dad. It has nothing to do with you."

Which, as it turns out, was exactly the wrong thing to say. My father is not mean-spirited, in general. He doesn't mean to hurt when he finds fault with things. In fact, for all he is shallow and self-centered, he is very honest about what he thinks and what he feels. His elitism has no malice; it just _is_. He prefers people with power, or people who are famous, or people who are pretty, which are essentially all the same thing, and he doesn't find you to fall into that category, he'll tell you so to your face before he talks about you behind your back. But if there's one thing that he can't stand, it's to feel overlooked or ignored.

And that is essentially what I just did.

For while it is the truth—or at least _almost_ the truth, because my moving out of my father's house has a lot to do with the fact that I'm _living_ with my father— for some people, it's better not to tell the truth. I should have said something about how it would help them, all three of them, in the future if I don't live in the same apartment.

I wait for my father to calm down. It takes a while. He does like to shout on occasion. And the fist-banging-on-the-table is apparently a new favorite of his. It _is _dramatic. Hope is sitting next to me, and I can tell she's drinking all this in. After all, I've been the biggest impediment—no matter how inconsequential my protests have been—to her plans with my father. If I leave, that makes things much easier. Like they were before I came here.

Because I am an impediment to their way of life. They want to live the way they want to live, and my objections only do so much to stem the tide. Getting them to this apartment might be seen as my biggest triumph, but it really didn't involve any sacrifice on their part, because it put them in a place where they get to be almost the center of attention at all times.

I could be like my mother, I suppose. The way Rochelle is always telling me I should be. I could be like my mother, and stay here with my family and fight everyday for them to be smarter, more practical, more pragmatic. More serious. I could stay, and pay tribute to my mother's memory that way.

Except I don't want to. Despite what Rochelle says, I'll never know what my mother would have wanted for me. She died when I was too young to understand her fully, and even as I grow up I find that my understanding is inhibited by my memories and by what other people have told me about her. I have no way of knowing who she really was and what she really wanted. I know that she loved me, and I know that I loved her. And I know that she worked herself to death trying to keep the family together and in line. And I know that I will miss her every day.

But recreating my mother does her no honor. Living my life according to what she wanted for me, or what Rochelle wants for me, or what my father, or Mary, or Ahmir, or Elliot, or anyone else wants for or from me would be a colossal mistake, and would be insulting to the love my mother had for me. Would disgrace any honest love anyone else has for me. I need to choose for myself.

Which is essentially what I just told my father. But I wait. And he calms down. Slightly. I did spring it on him rather suddenly—the job, which sent him into a near-apoplectic fit, and the apartment, which was just the cherry on the fit-sundae. Surprises can be nasty things sometimes.

In stories, the heroine (usually a princess in disguise or on the run, or otherwise a very virtuous scullery maid) is patient, and through her quietness and good deeds, everything she wanted to change about her life is changed in the end. She's also usually aided by a prince, a woodcutter, a shepherd, or a wandering king disguised as some kind of adventurer. That is not my story.

My favorite story, even when I was growing up, was called Brave Margaret, about an Irish woman who is shipwrecked on an island, and is captured by a witch. She is shipwrecked in the first place because the ship she was in, with, of course, her one true love (a king disguised as an adventurer) is attacked by a sea monster. To save the lives of the crew, Margaret attempts to sacrifice herself, and gets into a small row boat, and rows out to sea, her love's shouts in her ears, and does battle with the monster, wins, but is tossed ashore by the waves. In the end it is she, and not her king, who saves the day.

That is my favorite story. But it is not my story.

All the heroines of fairy stories manage to change the things they don't like. They win because of their virtues, be they strength and courage or patience and compassion. In the end, no one is unhappy.

But there are some things I can't change. I can't change my father, who just wants to be adored. I can't change Elizabeth, who wants to be admired without having to admire. I can't change Hope, who wants whatever it is she wants from my father. I won't have any effect on Rochelle. Not really. They are as unmalleable as the past, as unflinching as stone. They will go where they will go. There's no point holding back a river. You can only stop it for so long. Only change it so much.

So I can't expect miracles, here. I can't work wonders. And I find that I don't want them gone from my life completely. No matter how shallow, no matter how dysfunctional, they are my family. And, in their own selfish way, they do love me.

So I wait. And when he runs out of breath, I say, very calmly. "I'm sorry. I understand. What I meant to say was this…" And I start again.

It's never too late.

* * *

The deal we strike is simple, and it costs me very little. I go to their functions, and I smile for their friends. For now, it's every function. In a few months, they'll stop demanding so much of me. That's the good thing about them being so predictable.

My move is almost immediate, and there's not much for me to take. Most of the furniture I have is too small or purple and sparkly, so trips to consignment shops and thrift stores are in order. My apartment languishes, mostly unfurnished, until I find things that aren't so big they eat up all space but aren't too small to be sat on, either.

I move in Tuesday, and by the time Friday rolls around, I am sore and tired, but exhilarated. I also have to wash my hair several times to get the paint out and be presentable for the benefit concert.

I take an unusual amount of care in my appearance. There's not much that can be done with hair as short as mine, but I pin it back with a silver clip. My dress is floor-length, dark blue, and one-shouldered. It doesn't sparkle. I don't like sparkles. It took me hours to find a dress that I liked, rather than one that worked. It took me three times as long to learn how not to trip over myself in the dress and heels.

I don't usually dress up.

The Palladium was built the year before my mother died, and was built with the taxpayers' money. The fact that only a select few can afford the cost of the tickets to anything housed on one of the Palladium's several stages doesn't seem to be an issue much discussed among the black-tie-optional set. The mere existence of the Palladium enhances the quality of life in Bath. So they say. The main stage is enormous—capable of housing over eight thousand people—and as such is too large for this kind of exclusive gathering. The crowd of filthy-rich philanthropic do-gooders, and my family, is socializing and sipping champagne in the marble-tiled lesser foyer outside an auditorium called The Lower Room.

I am not sipping champagne. I actually like champagne, but at this moment I am preoccupied with scanning the crowd, waiting to see Ahmir. Or waiting to not see Ahmir. At the moment, the latter option is prevailing. My family, likewise, is waiting for Margaret Dalrymple and her daughter, who somehow were capable of buying Rochelle a ticket, but unable to get Mary and Charles tickets as well. Mary is probably sitting on the couch with an icepack to her head at this very moment.

The room is enormous, and to distract myself, I crane my neck and look up, up, all the way up to the ceiling, far above our heads. From here, I can make out the geometric paneling, in all black, that reflects sound. It's said to be the most acoustically perfect building west of the Mississippi. The all-black ceiling and the dark marble give it a sense of perpetual night, a sense of urgency and secrecy that is usually missing from concert halls at night. It must be hell for the people who work here, where the sun never shines and the lights never illuminate.

The acoustics _are_ good. From twenty yards away, I hear Elizabeth say his name to my father. I whip around, looking toward the door, and there he is, making a straight line to me. He is one of only a few men who took the "optional" part seriously—rather than a tuxedo, he is wearing an impeccable suit, charcoal gray, with a solid burgundy tie. His shoes are polished to a shine, and he's wearing a large silver watch on his right wrist. It's a watch I gave him for his birthday once, a long time ago. He still has it.

I can't help the smile that pulls at my lips—I'm too happy to see him. He smiles back at me as he strolls up, taking it all in as if it were just another day. As if he does this all the time. And maybe he does.

"You managed to come?" I asked, somewhat stupidly.

He shrugs casually. "I was free tonight, thought I might as well."

"Do you know what the concert's for?"

"Concert?" He frowns down at me, apparently confused. "This isn't a lecture on sports leadership?"

I shake my head at him, smiling. He grins back mischievously. Then he looks down at his shoes, and back up at me.

"We've barely spoken since I took you to the airport. I was worried you'd be in shock from the accident, especially since you dealt with it so well at the time. You didn't have time to be upset yourself."

I'm somewhat startled at the change in conversation. Never mind the fact that we've spoken more in the past week than we ever did in Lyme.

"I'm okay," I reassure him. "I was okay. And besides, Louisa's fine, my arm's fine. No harm done." That is a misstatement, but not really an untruth. Funny how that happens. "And," I continue as he opens his mouth to contradict me, "it had some effects we didn't foresee."

His mouth quirks up ruefully, and he nods. "Right. Louisa and Ben."

He's silent for a second, and so am I. "Do you not approve?" I ask after it's been a bit too long.

He blinks. "No, no, no. I _do _approve. It's just—"he pauses, looking around for the right words. "You didn't know Harry's sister, Phoebe, did you?"

"No."

"You would have loved her. Louisa is nice, and smart, and friendly, but Phoebe was something fantastically special. And Ben was really in love with her. I'm just wondering how he can go from loving Phoebe to loving Louisa so quickly. A man doesn't recover from that kind of love. He shouldn't," he raises his eyes to mine firmly, and takes a small breath. "He doesn't."

Without realizing it, we've inched toward each other, until we're standing so close only a few inches separates the toes of our shoes. When I think to remember breathing, I find that I'm breathing deeply and often, as if I'm trying to disguise the fact that I've just run a mile. I have so much to tell him, and the timing is perfect, and all I have to do is open my mouth and say—

"Anne! Anne! Margaret Dalrymple is here!" Elizabeth is pulling my arm by the bicep, and I am nearly pulled off my feet. I take one last look at Ahmir, his mouth open mid-word, as I am directed toward the middle of the foyer to greet Margaret Dalrymple's party. Which seems to include Elliot. He hugs me, then bows playfully over my hand. I can't think how this looks to Ahmir.

We're ushered into the auditorium quickly after, before I get a chance to talk to Ahmir one more time. The ticket Elliot bought for me is, unsurprisingly, for a seat next to him. My offer for a trade goes either unheard or ignored, so Elliot effectively forms a barrier between Ahmir, who is on the isle, and me. I try, but I don't catch his eye again.

The concert begins. I have to admit that I don't remember much of it, even as it happens, although the audience response is as wildly enthusiastic as a roomful of WASPs and their allowed exceptions can possibly be.

Elliot is in fine form. He takes my hand several times, and seems unperturbed each time I extricate myself from his grasp. He leans in to whisper a comment or two, or to consult with me on the program. I try to distance myself, but it's hard to do when your chair is nailed to the floor. After what seems like an interminable first half, the lights go down and then back up, signaling intermission. I lean forward, ready to talk over Elliot if I have to, only to have Elliot lean forward, too, touching my face softly with his hands and catching my lips in a quick kiss.

I pull back, startled, only to see Ahmir stand up swiftly and walk up the aisle. I make to follow him, but Elliot catches my hand. "Anne, there's something I need to tell you. It's important."

I look from him to the door and back, and I find that politeness can go to hell. I slip my hand out of his, and say "I'm sorry, Elliot. I don't want to hear it."

And then I'm off and running after Ahmir, going as fast as I can in my fragile silver heels, which is in no way fast enough to catch up to a world-class soccer player if he's determined to run. But as I get to the door, I see that he's only halfway across the foyer.

"Ahmir!" I say, running after him, my heels clacking on the floor. Thanks to the architecture, he can't possibly pretend he doesn't hear me. My voice radiates of the ceiling and the walls. He stops, and turns around, and I see the muscle working in his cheek. I want to rush into an explanation, a denial, anything, but something in his eyes scares me. It's a kind of wild despair, and I see his jaw working from where I am, a good twelve feet away.

"Yes?" he says, his voice flat. He could be talking to a complete stranger.

"Are you leaving?"

"Clearly."

"Well," I fumble, licking my lips, "what about the second half? There are some beautiful songs in the second half. Aren't those worth staying for?"

"No," he snaps, "there's nothing here worth my staying for." And he turns on his heels and pushes open the door, not waiting for the usher to do it for him. In two seconds, he's gone from sight, and the crowd from the auditorium begins to flood into the foyer once again, talking animatedly.

He's jealous of Elliot. It shouldn't gratify me, but it does.

I may still have a chance with him.


	20. Heads and Tails

**A****LTER?**** When the hills do.**

**Falter? When the sun**

**Question if his glory**

**Be the perfect one.**

**Surfeit? When the daffodil**

**Doth of the dew:**

**Even as herself, O friend!**

**I will of you!**

Emily Dickinson

* * *

I play host to over thirty people over the next couple of days. I feel bad because I am almost certain I don't do it particularly well. I keep playing the same moments from the concert over and over in my head, and of course, coming to the same conclusion over and over again. At least I'm not insane. Not yet.

My conclusion is simple, and comprised of four words: something has to change.

There's no way around it now. No way to sit back and let things play out, or to send secret signals and hope they're picked up. My intentions have been misunderstood by more than one person on more that one occasion. There's a time to be polite, and then there's a time to be clear. I am fairly certain that this particular moment in time—infinitessimal in the span of the universe, but life and death in my existence—calls for the latter approach. I can be polite later.

So other things, like hosting guests for tea, fall by the wayside. In fact, I'm fairly certain I put salt in Charles' coffee. He drinks too much coffee anyway.

Louisa, Ben, Harry and Hen come over two days after the concert, dragging Ahmir along with them. He hesitates by the door as all the others come in and exclaim delightedly over my ugly IKEA tables in a way for which I am forever indebted to them. Harry's gruff call of "get your ass in here" propels him as far as the sofa, where he falters again.

Who knew that People's second runner-up for Sexiest Man in the Alive could be so awkward?

The sofa, as it turns out, is the only place where the soccer players can sit down comfortably—Harry takes up most of the loveseat, and Ahmir and Ben are forced by sheer breadth to crush together on my pint -sized couch. Apparently, the furniture works well for me, but not so much for men built like Gaston.

Lou and Hen are comfy in my chairs, while I take a position on the floor, back to Lou's chair, facing the couch head-on. The way I'm supposed to be facing my fears.

He barely looks at me for the entire time they stay, which is about an hour. It's as if we're back in the Berkshires and nothing else has happened between us. When we do make eye contact, he looks away quickly, as if even the sight of me bothers him.

I'm every bit as annoyed as I am disappointed. Apparently it's not even worth coming to me to ask me the truth about what may or may not be going on between Elliot and me. And I'm annoyed at the situation, which has yet again made it impossible for me to talk to him alone. When they leave, Lou demanding she take me shopping for a dress for the engagement party on Saturday, Ahmir is the first one out the door, his coat already on. He throws me a glance before we leave, and as I open my mouth to say something, anything, my cell phone rings. I look down to turn it off, barely registering the MEGAN on the screen, and when I look up, Ahmir is gone.

Discouraged, I call Megan back, and agree to lunch at her apartment. I hop in the shower quickly, trying to scrub away all the bad feeling from the last few days.

The knock on the door comes when I'm just about to dry my hair. I look helplessly from the dryer to the door, but again the curiosity wins out, and I pad my way over, opening it thoughtlessly, without looking through the peephole first.

Standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, is Ahmir.

"Cap!" I say, taken completely by surprise. I correct myself immediately. "Ahmir. Did you forget something?" Then, when he doesn't answer me, "What's wrong?"

"Can I come in?" his voice is flat, but he twists his mouth. I nod before I speak.

"Sure, come on in," I make way for him to pass me, then shut the door behind me. My heart is racing from his nearness, but something holds me back. I feel the pull to reassure him about Friday night, to tell him it was a misunderstanding, but I should let him say what he wants to say. He came to me, I would just be an opportunist.

"Can I sit down?" He asks, pointing to the loveseat Harry had only recently vacated. I raise my eyebrows, trying not to smile.

"Yeah, of course you can sit down. Do you want something to drink?" I feel stupid offering drinks again, but it seems the thing to do, and I am, in fact, the mistress of this estate.

"No, thanks. I just have something to say, and then I'll get out your hair," he looks at my sopping head, and a smile flits around the corners of his mouth. "Literally."

I smile back at him, but his voice sounds ominous. "What's wrong?" I ask again, moving to sit down on the arm of the small chair, feeling awkward at such close quarters with him.

He puts his hands on his knees, and then folds them. Then he unfolds them, and puts them back on his knees. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Takes a breath, and then says, "I have a message from Adam and Nadya."

This is not at all what I was expecting. I wait a moment, eyebrows raised, then say, "A message?"

"Well, more like an offer, I guess." He raises his eyes to mine, then lowers them.

"An offer." I am a parrot.

"Yes." He raises his eyes to mine again, and then says "Adam and Nadya wanted me to tell you that if you wanted to bring Elliot as your date to Louisa and Ben's engagement, you could. He wasn't invited before, but if you wanted to invite him as your special guest, he was welcome to come."

I let that sink in for a second.

"Nadya and Adam said this?"

"Yes." He's watching me now.

"Okay."

"So you _will _be bringing him?"

"I—"

"Just say it." He looks me dead in the eye. "Yes or no."

I am surprised by a burst of anger. Then, as it grows, I'm surprised that I wasn't angrier beforehand. I clamp my mouth down around it, breathing around it, getting used to it. I don't get angry very often, and when I do, bad things tend to happen. I don't want bad things to happen right now.

My silence bothers him. He frowns, concerned. "Anne?"

"I don't suppose they could have called me themselves, or come by on their own." I keep my voice level, my thumbnail tracing the design on the chair upholstery.

"Well—" he seems flustered, although it seems to me a pretty basic piece of information to give.

"And I don't suppose there's any point in just _asking_ me if I'm dating Elliot," I continue, still levelly, now fixing him with my gaze. He looks at me for a moment, silently, and then says, "You're mad at me?"

"Yeah, actually, I am," I say, and with that confession the worst part of the anger starts to dissipate. All I have left now is my conviction of my own righteousness, which is more than enough to get my point across. Whatever my point ends up being.

"I don't think you've ever been _mad_ at me before," he says softly, his gaze half wondering half wary.

"Well, there's a first time for everything." He doesn't answer, and I take the silence to breathe, steadying myself.

"If you want to know something, Ahmir, just ask me. And also," I continue, sitting back and looking around, as if asking this question generally, "why is it that _everyone _is just assuming that I'm with—" There's a knock on the door. We both look to it, and I have the strange sensation that we are both thinking the same thing.

I get up and cross to the door. _Please don't let it be Elliot, please don't let it be Elliot, because I swear to God, if it's Elliot, I'll…_

I open the door. It's not Elliot.

Rochelle smiles at me, sees the expression on my face, then looks around me to see Ahmir in the living room. She steps around me and they gaze at each other for a moment. The silence is killing me. I have to say something, and finally, I choose the stupidest thing ever to say.

"Ahmir, do you remember Rochelle?"

"Rochelle." His response is frigid. He hasn't moved from his seat.

Rochelle folds her hands in front of her. "And how are you?" she asks genially.

"I've been better," is his terse response. I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, nothing has changed.

Ahmir seems in no hurry to leave. In fact, he sits back in the loveseat and picks up a book from my end table, reading the back of it. Rochelle sits down in the armchair I just vacated, and crosses her legs. I stand, at a complete loss.

"Would anyone like some tea?" I say, moving to the kitchen before anyone has a chance to answer. I turn the faucet, then let the water run a little, leaning against the sink, head thrown back. This is terrible timing. Terrible, awful timing.

I take my time fixing things up. I should probably be out in the living room making sure no one is killed, but I don't want to get in the middle, which is unfortunately exactly where I am, and where I always have been. I step back into the room with a tray of tea perched precariously in my shaking hands, just in time to hear Rochelle ask, "Are you a fan of Joyce?"

Ahmir puts my copy of The Dubliners back where it was. "He's not my favorite." Is all he says. Rochelle smiles. She never thought Ahmir read enough to be with me. That seems to still be true.

Ahmir continues, " Irish literature as a whole doesn't do much for me. Although 'The Dead' is one of the best things ever written. Thank you, Anne," he says, smiling up at me as I offer him a cup of tea. I didn't bother bringing out the sugar bowl. I know how both of them take their breakfast beverages.

Rochelle recognizes his last statement with a slight twist of her lips and a noncommittal sound, the turns completely to me, effectively cutting Ahmir out of the conversation. She says something about walking somewhere, and my eyes flick to the clock on the wall, the clock I had only bought the day before at a hokey consignment shop called Be Our Guest. If I was going to make it to Megan's on time, I would need to leave now.

_There's a time to be polite and a time to be clear. _

"Actually," I say, standing up and cutting Rochelle off. She and Ahmir both look at me in wonder, their mouths open, their expressions identical. It would be hilarious if I were in the laughing mood. "Actually, I have to be somewhere right now, so I'm going to need to kick you both out so I can finish getting ready."

"A date with Elliot?" Rochelle smiles, collecting her purse in a hurry. She seems perfectly willing to leave if a date with Mr. Williams is in store.

I avoid looking at Ahmir. "Nope. I'm seeing my old roommate for some lunch. Now please leave. Both of you, out!" I shoo them out, making the classic "go away" hand gestures and closing the door firmly behind them. It is perhaps the rudest I have ever been to company. And _man_ does it feel good.

* * *

"Why is everyone so obsessed with the idea of Elliot and me? Why does _everyone in the world _ think we're dating?" I exclaim, sitting back and crossing my legs, folding my arms across my chest.

"You _aren't_ dating him?" Megan asks, putting her glass down on the table.

"No. Or course not."

"You're sure?"

"I generally have very good self-awareness when it comes to my own love life. I think I can be reasonably relied upon to know when I'm not dating someone." I say it waspishly, more so than she deserves. But I guess this counts as a time to be clear, as well.

"Okay, filly, reign that in," she holds up her hands (adorned with green-and-purple fingerless gloves bedecked with pink flowers) in a gesture of surrender. Next to me Rocio raises her eyebrows. "I just wanted to know the truth, I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition."

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. And can't you just ask me? What is it with the just assuming and not even asking thing?"

"Oh, like you don't do that either. Hush'm, little Miss Elliot. But you definitely aren't dating him?"

"YES, I'm definitely not dating him! Okay? Nor am I secretly in love with him and unable to express my feelings, nor am I denying it for the drama, okay? I don't even _like _him that much."

"Oh, good," she says, sounding genuinely relieved. Rocio leans in, too and says "No, seriously, it's _very_ good."

I look from one to the other. "What do you know?"

They exchange glances. Rocio nods, and jerks her head towards me. Megan looks at me again, and takes a breath, opening her mouth to speak.

"Now, I've only _known_ this for a day or so. I've suspected it for a while." She splays her hands down flat on the tabletop, as if laying out a battle plan. Rocio and I exchange a glance, and I lean in despite myself. When Megan speaks again, it is in serious, flat tones. "Elliot Williams is after your money."

I can't help it. I laugh. I laugh loudly. "What money?" I scoff. "I work in a diner!"

"Not that money. The money your mother left you. A trust fund."

The smile slides right off my face, and I stare at her, unblinking for a moment. "How do you know about that?"

Because it's true. My mother put money into a trust fund for all three of her daughters, which ended up being quite a significant amount, all things considered. The fund was supposed to be split into three equal parts, and was entailed to us for when we turn thirty or when we get married, whichever comes first. As such, Mary got hers years ago, while Elizabeth, it seems, is expecting to get hers all to herself. I haven't heard of or thought of that fund since I was nineteen. I didn't even tell Ahmir about it. I definitely never mentioned it to Megan, no matter how close we were at school.

"It's over ten million dollars, isn't it?" She says, shocking me further.

"Where did you hear this?" I ask, now frowning thunderously. Megan licks her lips, hesitating, then looks to Rocio, who glances at me uncertainly before leaning in herself. The blood is pounding so hard in my ears that I can barely hear what she says, though I'm hanging on every word.

Missing is Rocio's normal slightly smug smile, like the Mona Lisa, who knows even more than she lets on. Instead, she is urgent and slightly hesitant, as if afraid that I'm going to explode at any second. Well, they _do_ say it's always the quiet ones.

"I was at General Wallis's house two days ago, and I heard him and his wife talking. They talk all the time, the two of them, and they pretend like I'm not there, so I hear things, you know? Well, Elliot Williams and the General are drinking buddies, apparently, as hard as it is to believe for a man who can't leave his house. And Elliot told him a story once about his father being your mother's lawyer, and about how rich you and your sisters are. And about a weird part of the will, some loophole that would make it so that your father's wife—"

She doesn't get any further, because I stand up abruptly, pushing my chair back several inches, and causing the other two to look at me fearfully. I've figured it out, obviously. And really, it's idiotic that I hadn't done it before.

Elliot's father _was_ my mother's lawyer, while my father had been patronizing Mr Shepherd for as long as I can remember. Mr Williams, Harvard educated and top of his class, helped my mother set up the trust fund for my sisters and me, but he had failed to correct a minor error in language in the fund's language. So, too a similar one in her will. What seemed at the time to be a clerical error could possibly be described by some very cynical people as sinister and calculating, but I'm inclined to think it was an error. My mother seemed to be in the peak of health, and she took better care of herself than my clearly hedonistic father.

That loophole is that in the event of a change of plan, that Mrs Elliot is the sole proprietor of the trust. _Mrs_ Elliot. Not my mother's name, not her maiden name. No specifications. All in all, very sloppy work from one of the East Coast's best lawyers. The will, in turn, simply directed the reader to the trust's language.

This would mean, of course, that if my father manages to marry again before Elizabeth turns thirty or gets married, then his wife, if she changes her name to Mrs Elliot, _could_ _possibly have_ unlimited access to a net worth of over twenty million dollars at her disposal. And Hope Shepherd, the pretty daughter of my father's lawyer, has been positioning herself to do just that. She has to have known about the will. Her father knew.

It's a long shot, to be sure, but a good lawyer can make a convincing argument for it. Crazier things have happened.

But if Dad doesn't get married to Hope, then the money goes to Elizabeth and me, the way our mother planned. No doubt Elizabeth is having severely bittersweet feelings about her thirtieth birthday.

And then there's me. I'm a little more than four years from thirty. The quickest way to get my money is to marry me. No doubt Elliot is so assured of my good nature that he is betting everything on my not wanting to sign a prenup. So he needed to make me fall in love with him. Which is essentially what he's been trying to do for months now.

I haven't thought about that money in years. I haven't spoken about it to anyone. For all that it's ten million dollars, more than enough to do whatever I want, the possibility of getting it seemed to remote for so long that that money wasn't even a part of my worldview. I had considered us destitute and bankrupt. And, in my elitism, I hadn't considered Hope to be smart enough or well-informed enough to be capable of thinking past the here and now. That money had seemed so far away from my world that it didn't even enter into my consciousness. Now it seems central to everything.

"So, what you're saying is," I say after taking several deep, supposedly-steadying breaths. "What you're saying is that he wants my money, and he wants to keep Hope from marrying my father."

Rocio nods vigorously. She's gotten over the shock fairly quickly, since she doesn't know me well. Megan looks floored by my admittedly violent reaction. I try to smile and reassure her, but when that fails I sit down carefully, picking up the carafe of water on the table and slowly refilling my glass, willing my shaking hands not to err, making sure not to spill any water. I shouldn't have reacted so quickly. I should have at least tried to keep my cool.

I want to say that my shock and disgust at this situation have nothing to do with my pride. The money itself, while significant, isn't as thrilling as perhaps it should be. At least to any sane, normal person. I guess I'm not sane. I've doubted it several times before, what's one more time?

I usually consider myself to be a good judge of character. I'm also usually right about the people I meet. I take time to think over conversations, I dwell far too much on what was said and what was done. I know the ins and outs of how I feel, because that is what I _need _ to know. I need to understand fully, in long, complex, English sentences, what it is that I'm feeling and thinking and why that is. It's in me. I can't change it.

But Elliot fooled me. I wasn't completely taken in, to be sure, but I also wasn't as suspicious as I should have been. As careful as I should have been. He got very close to me very quickly, for all I tried to keep him away. It's impossible to hate Elliot, even when he does hateful things. It's impossible to despise him, even when he does despicable things. That is his greatest asset. He is beautiful, he dresses well, he is educated and respectful and charming, but his friendly, open demeanor will always get him at least part of what he wants. Not this, though. Never this.

I wonder if he knew it was me at Lyme, all those months ago. Somehow, I doubt it. He rarely shows genuine emotion, and he was actually surprised to see me.

Well. I had no intention of marrying him anyway. This just puts paid to both the on-a-desert-island and last-people-on-earth-and-we-must-repopulate scenarios. No. And no.

I take another sip of water, mulling it over. The perspiration from the glass wets my hand, and a small droplet slides between my pinkie and my ring finger. I cool down.

I've spent so long in my own little world that I forgot how so much of the world really works. I've lived for so long in a prison of my own making that I forgot to remember the possibility of freedom. Having money makes it possible to do more things. Having money makes you prey to the hopes of the rest of the world. There are always two sides to a story.

I place the glass down on the table, fiddling with it so that the corner fits exactly on the placemat.

As for Hope, I don't think she'll succeed. She can try, and she has tried, but Elizabeth turns thirty fairly soon, which loses half the money right there. And first she'd have to marry my dad, which would involve her convincing him that somehow he loved somebody enough to commit to a life change for her. So far, she's been living by his rules. He likes that.

I leave Megan's apartment with a lot to think about. I've managed to convince Megan and Rocio that I'm all right, and for the most part, I am. In reality, this changes nothing. I was never going to fall in love with Elliot. Hope never really had much of a chance with my dad.

But at the same time, I feel more connected to the people I know I can trust. To the open and honest people who are my friends. Lou, Hen, Harry, Charles, Nadya, Adam, even Mary are all who they are. And they don't try to hide their intentions from each other. They lack the calculations. And Ahmir, oh, Ahmir, even on his best days he only slightly inscrutable, slightly uncommunicative. He makes his intentions fairly clear. He is mostly unmysterious. He could never con anyone, not because he lacks the intelligence, but because he simply never would do that. Honesty is best. I learned that from him.

I will be honest. I will be forthright. I will not let this opportunity pass me by. I've dealt with "maybes" and "sometime soons" and haven't gotten anywhere. It's over. I will tell him how I feel. By the time the week is over, this endless toss-around of hints and indications, of clues and fear and stupid, stupid, _stupid_ hesitation will be over. I will tell him how I feel.

And then we'll see.


	21. Staircase Moment Part One

_**Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink**_  
_**Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;**_  
_**Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink**_  
_**And rise and sink and rise and sink again;**_  
_**Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,**_  
_**Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;**_  
_**Yet many a man is making friends with death**_  
_**Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.**_  
_**It well may be that in a difficult hour,**_  
_**Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,**_  
_**Or nagged by want past resolution's power,**_  
_**I might be driven to sell your love for peace,**_  
_**Or trade the memory of this night for food.**_  
_**It well may be. I do not think I would.**_

**Edna St. Vincent Millay**

**

* * *

**

The dress Louisa wants me to wear is out of both my price range and my comfort zone. Neither phenomenon is particularly surprising, I suppose, since I mainly live off tips, and have the comfort zone of about one square foot when it comes to clothing. An added caveat is that I spent most of my savings on my dress for the concert, only to realize rather belatedly that I had nothing presentable to wear to Louisa and Ben's engagement party.

I'm usually much better at planning.

Okay, I'm _sometimes_ much better at planning.

I try to deny Louisa, but she's currently holding the clothes hanger under her chin and making the sad puppy face at me. I'm a sucker for the sad puppy face. Also, it _is_ her party. And shopping with her has brought out the liveliness that I've been missing from her. Her taste is so different from what it used to be, but it's still impeccable, and she has no agenda, no ulterior motives for her time with me. The most she wants from me is to let her pick my dress. Which is refreshing.

I make a last-ditch attempt to resist. "It's way too expensive, Lou. I can't."

"Oh, whatever," she says, dropping the sad puppy face for a more-serious don't-give-me-that-crap look. "I'll pay for it, it's not terrible. Or," she continues, raising her voice over the possibility of my resistance, "we can go Dutch on it, alright? You'd look amazing in this, and I think it's time the world saw that your legs aren't made of denim. What do you think?"

Even paying for half of the dress is too expensive, but I can make that work. It's better than letting her pay for a dress her friend is wearing to her own party. I agree, and Lou claps her hands quietly, doing a small, unobtrusive victory dance as we walk to the cash registers. If it had been a year ago, or even six months ago, she would have flagged down other shoppers to ask their opinion on the dress. She would have made up a song and sung it loudly, accompanied by an impromptu dance routine. She would have told me that the dress made it look like I have tits, and that you can't put a price tag on that. To the outside world, she's not so changed, but she is to me. At least she's happy.

Talking about the wedding, whenever it happens, makes her smile, and so we walk out of the boutique deep in conversation about aspects of the wide world of wedding planning that I have never thought of before, or even considered important. I didn't get that far last time.

I have to talk her out of buying me shoes.

By the time we're eating ice cream from little plastic cups and miniscule plastic spoons, I am footsore and near-broke. The walk back to the shared apartment, which Lou jokingly calls "the house of ill repute," is longer than it seemed heading out. My only consolation in climbing the stairs to the third floor is the last remnant of pistachio ice cream in my cup, and even that runs out before we reach the door.

I am a waitress. I'm paid to stand around all day. What a cruel twist it is that the better part of my days off are relegated to the same kind of activity.

Far from being the loud, active place of my first visit, the apartment seems tranquil and almost empty. The smell of sautéing onions and peppers wafts from the kitchen, but Lou and I head into the living room first, where we find Ben, Harry, and Ahmir playing FIFA on the Playstation and cajoling each other. It occurs to me that the preseason should be starting soon. They look up as we come in, and Ahmir pauses the game. Lou plunks herself down on the couch next to Ben, while I set down the shopping bags. After the last time we spoke, two days ago, I am almost awkward being around Ahmir. But only almost.

Any worry about how to approach him is erased when I look up to see him walking toward me. Ben, Lou, and Harry are deep in debate about why they're not playing themselves in FIFA. When he's next to me, Ahmir seems at a loss for where to put his hands. He settles for his favorite location, his pockets, and looks down at where I'm trying to reset a large bag to keep it from falling over.

"You guys find some good stuff?" he asks, indicating the mountain of shopping we've brought home. I look up at him, and his face is every bit as open and friendly as it usually is. I realize suddenly, shamefully, that I have been giving him little to no credit for days now. I am disgusted that I believed, if only for a second, that he had come here to offer more in the style of our last conversation.

I smile back, rolling my eyes. "Lou found a lot. Some things never change."

My surprise must have registered on my face, because he frowns and steps in a little closer. "Look, Anne, about yesterday—" If I were nineteen, I would have rushed to reassure him. Now I understand the value of letting people say what they need to say. "—about yesterday, I'm sorry. That was a jackass thing to do. I apologize. I had no right to do that."

I stand up straight, but I'm still a good seven inches shorter than he is. "I understand. Just don't let it—"

Now it's he who rushes to reassure me, "It won't happen again. Pinkie swear." He grins boyishly, offering me his pinkie to shake. I laugh, taken off guard, and hold out mine as well, trying to contain my mirth as he shakes pinkies with me in mock solemnity.

Pinkie swears are a serious business.

It strikes me, for the very first time, how much of a hypocrite I am. I should be promising him the same thing in return. Instead I'm happy to let him be the one to apologize. I promise myself instead that I won't assume something's so just because it hasn't been denied.

Something's better than nothing.

"So what's the dress like for Friday?" he asks, dropping the shake and the faux-serious demeanor. There is suddenly an easy camaraderie between us that wasn't there two minutes ago. I glance down at the bag and back up at him, quirking an eyebrow. He opens his hands wide. "What? I can't be interested?"

"If you're asking for fashion advice, I'm not the person who picked it out," I say, indicating Lou. Harry is watching us intently. "And if you're asking to see it, then you're going to be disappointed. I'm under strict instructions not to reveal it to a living soul until Friday." Lou corroborates my story. It's good to have a girlfriend who has your back.

It strikes me that now is the time. Now could well be the time where I tell Ahmir how I feel. There aren't many people here, we could easily slip off somewhere and I could just tell him. Simple as that. I do need to tell him. That's still true. I need to be proactive. But what is the difference between making up my mind to do something and then doing it? Is there a time limit, after which I am no longer the decided, confident woman I pretend to be? Or can I wait until the time is right, whenever that is? Which is better, slightly aggressive immediacy, or slightly reticent opportunism? And how are we supposed to know?

But no. Now is not the time. Nor is it the place, in the middle of a living room in the middle of the day, where any request for privacy will seem stunted and awkward. I don't want to rush things, even if I am in a hurry. It needs to be right for him as well.

I leave eventually on my own steam. I don't get a phone call, begging me for help. Elliot's seventeen calls since yesterday go unanswered. I don't realize that I'm late for work.

No, I decide when it's time for me to leave, and that's when I leave, after a delicious lunch made by Mr Musgrove himself. The lightness in this house, and with these people, fills me up. Ahmir sits across from me, and his knee brushes against mine. I don't resist the urge to look at him. We look at each other. And then when I decide I need to go, I collect my shopping and go.

I'm a big girl. I make my own decisions.

* * *

Now that I remember about the trust fund, it keeps invading my thoughts, unwelcomed and unwarranted. I don't want to always be thinking about money, but something about being a target for that money makes me focus on it. Or, rather, it enters into normal everyday routine. Buying a dress. Renting a movie. Opening the door to my small apartment.

I am happy where I am. I am happy with who I am. If any of that changes, it will be for a better reason than that I can afford better. I tell myself. And the more I tell myself, the fiercer the thought becomes. I can will myself not to be greedy. I _will _will myself not to be greedy. I am a single woman with no children living and working in the city. How much space do I need? How many outfits do I need?

The word "need" is a strange one. The word, and the meaning behind it. In its depths, it implies necessity, but also sufficiency. I need to eat to live. I need to wear shoes to protect my feet. Simple truths, yes, but also pared down. Vague. It implies that I can subsist on gruel, or wear one single pair of shoes, no matter how big or small, and I should be satisfied. I need.

Want, on the other hand, is a one-syllable word that spans further than the reaches of the universe, and still can't be satisfied. I want a spaceship. I want magical powers. I want to go eat just Mac and Cheese and not get scurvy. It's the rallying call of small children, the "I want it, I don't want it." It's what my sister says looking in the shop window at a beautiful pair of shoes. I want that. Oooh, I waaaant that.

Need is supposed to be a comfort. Or better yet, need is supposed to be noble. When we see something we want, rather than seem spoiled or wasteful, we say "I don't need it." And most of the time, it's true. I want magical powers, but I don't need them. I want that pair of boots, but I don't need them. I have a pair of sneakers. My needs are met. Little do we admit to ourselves that sometimes wants _must_ be answered, because if not, we are feeding ourselves from the little truck garden of need. Which can be a sparse meal indeed. Wants become needs. Become wants. Become needs.

That being said, I do not _need_ the trust fund. In point of fact, I do not even _want _ the trust fund. We've all dreamed of having a million or so dollars at some point, but the fact of the matter is that if I had the ten million dollars I would do exactly as I am doing right now. I don't need fancy cars. I don't want fancy cars. I prefer to walk.

The sheer unimaginable amount of money held in that fund is something to be wondered at. How did my mother manage to earn or save thirty million dollars for us? What once had seemed so natural now seems unfathomable. What did she have to give up in order to give us a chance at the freedom that kind of fortune would provide for us? Was it her own freedom? What did she want? What did she need?

I am struck by how little I now realize that I knew my mother. She never stopped being the mother figure to me. I never learned more than that. I should have asked. She should have told me.

This moment in my life, these past few weeks, are something I could have talked to her about. I suddenly, futilely, want her opinion, her counsel, her reassurance. I want to drink tea with her in my miniscule living room and I want her to tell me stories about her own lives, her own loves. I want her to be there to distract me, and comfort me, and teach me a little about where I come from. About how I was raised. And, like a small child, I want her to hug me, and stroke me hair, and rock me to sleep in her lap, singing something softly under her breath. I want that so much that I think I would give anything for it.

But I don't need it. These past few months, which have been the most confusing I have ever lived, with the largest potential for terrible hurt, have proved that I don't need to be coddled. I don't need anyone else's opinion on what I want, or anyone else's counsel. I don't need to hear someone else say that I'm doing the right thing to know it's true. I don't need my mother.

That doesn't stop the wanting.

Neither, really, do I need Ahmir. I have lived the majority of my life without him, and up until two weeks ago I was ready to continue doing so. I don't need him to survive the way I need water or food or clothing. I don't need him like I need rain to fall or the sun to shine or the wind to blow. But need is a very shallow, very cold thing. It doesn't stop the wanting.

I want him. I want him in my life, I want to see him every day, and have him smile at me, at _me_, every day until the day that I die. I want him like I want good food, or good weather, or happy days, or warm sweaters, because he is part of the order of things that enrich my life, which make it interesting, make it _worth_ living. I enjoy my life better when he's there. I savor it, I relish it, more than I would without him. He is not necessary to my survival, but he is the deeply desired enrichment of that survival. If I don't have him, I probably won't die. But I probably won't live, either.

I don't need him. I want him. How much better that is.

* * *

I have always wanted a staircase moment. I don't know what it is about staircases, but every teen movie has a shot of a pretty girl walking down staircase to the astonishment of her reticent but highly-romantic crush. For the most part, I have been able to avoid adherence to teen movie clichés, but for some reason the staircase moment holds on. Maybe it's the look of wonder on the boy's face. Maybe it's the happiness on her face, just coming out of the requisite makeover, in which her glasses and ponytail are removed to highly dramatized effect. I'm not sure.

In real life, however, staircase moments are hard to come by. I had entertained, for maybe two minutes, the fantasy of walking down the staircase to the main dance floor of the hall where the engagement party is taking place, and turning heads. I had imagined Ahmir's mouth dropping open in astonishment at my regality. For a moment. Everything seems likely when you're alone, putting makeup on in front of a mirror.

I arrive early to the party, and find the place in a dither. Chairs haven't been covered yet because the caterer was held up by outrageous traffic in the O'Hara Tunnel. The bar needs to be set up. Boxes unpacked. Lou herself is unpacking the wineglasses, placing them upside-down, as per the caterer's instructions, on the counter behind the bar. She looks up and sees me reaching out to offer to take a similar box from one of the waiters, and surprises me by barking, "Anne! What do you think you're doing?"

I pause, flustered. "Helping."

"Oh, no, not in that dress you're not. You'll get it stained or wrinkled or something."

I look down at myself, swathed in body-hugging peach silk, the crossover sweetheart neckline edged in a fine row of tiny lace. Ridiculous dress. "I'm not just going to stand around while you unpack things for your own party," I insist.

"Nope. Step away." She shoos me away, much as I did to Ahmir and Rochelle only a few days ago. I understand now how annoying that must have been, though I can't say I really regret doing it. I'm about to say something along the lines of the sheer folly of her wanting to keep me pristine over her wanting to be ready for her guests in time, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Charles standing next to me, offering me his exquisite suit jacket. I smile a thanks up at him and take it while he rolls up his shirt sleeves and helps the caterer move a large silver chafing dish to the exact right spot on the buffet table, the science of which escapes me even as I watch. I pull on the jacket, making an exaggerated show of buttoning it up for Lou's benefit. It's enormous, and I have to fight the urge to push up the sleeves, Miami Vice-style, in order to use my hands. I set myself only the tasks least likely to drag Charles' sleeves in something messy.

Which is why, when Ahmir, Harry, and Nikki arrive, I am wearing a man's voluminous suit jacket and putting out table settings. Staircase moment it is not. Ahmir quirks an amused eyebrow at my wardrobe, and I shrug, laying yet another tiny dessert spoon above yet another set of plates. The sets that they've chosen are a white with small black leaves decorating one side of the rim. I'm almost certain that there is a poem to correspond to these plates.

He approaches me, hands yet again in his pockets, his stride long in his polished shoes. The suit that he's wearing is a charcoal grey in light-weight wool that somehow manages to make his skin glow. He radiates. His tie is simple, black, with one thin, meandering grey stripe. The smile that he shoots me is almost enough to knock me over.

I feel, strangely, like I'm in middle school again. At least right now. I like this man. I love this man. And I am reasonably assured of his feelings for me. Again, I'm only surmising. At yet, somehow, we haven't managed to get things together. I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him. But he does not belong to me, any more than I belong to him.

"Need help?" He says, stopping about a chair and a half away from me. I shrug again, feeling ridiculous in the suit jacket, then gesture with my free hand to the plastic container of spoons in the other one. "Oh, about all I can get, really." Spoon puns spring to mind. I refrain.

He does not. "You want me to spoon with you?" His smile is wicked, and I feel a blush rising up, sending heat to my face and shivers down my spine. I'm about to answer when there's a crash from the kitchen, followed by a volley of expressive curses from Adam, who, like Charles, has taken off his jacket, although his is currently residing over the back of a chair. "Cap! Get over here!" he calls, gesturing grandiosely.

I look back at Ahmir. He has his eyes raised up to the ceiling in exasperation, then pulls them back down to look at me. I smile ruefully, indicating with my head that he should help them out. He shrugs, and takes off wordlessly, loping easily to the other side of the room in less than five seconds.

I love watching him run. Does that make me dirty?

The first of the guests arrive just as Team USA has gotten everything under control. The food doesn't need to be ready for another hour, and the hors d'oeurves circling the growing crowd are universally popular.

I track Charles down to hand him back his jacket, and Lou cat calls me as I reveal the dress underneath. I shake my head at her, only to look away into Ahmir's eyes. He's watching me with a small smile on his face, and as he catches my gaze, the smile widens. I want to tell him right now. But the party has started, and it's too late.

I keep forgetting that the Musgroves are a family of the same tony genre as mine. Their attitudes are so different, but so many of the people they know are the same as the people my family knows. I find myself shying away from many of the two hundred faces in the hall, but as the only Elliot (for at least two hours before my father, Elizabeth, and Hope decide to show up after all), I can't escape to the refuge of anonymity as I normally would. I find myself, much to my own horror, _schmoozing_.

When the dinner bell finally rings, much to my relief, I find my spot at one of the head two tables. I catch only a glance at Ahmir, as I am seated with my back facing him, but he looks exhausted, as if he's just run ten miles. I suppose an internationally famous athlete is even more at risk of schmoozing than a little nobody with a once-important last name.

After the dinner, which was suitably expensive, there is to be dancing. This touch, I know, is Lou's. I doubt Ben enjoys dancing very much. I spend time watching them over dinner, trying not to _look_ like I'm watching them. Because that would be creepy.

I generally think of myself as open-minded. Usually until I come up against something I don't like for a reason I can't explain. I don't like how soon Ben has forgotten about Phoebe, even if I never knew her. I don't like it at all. But how can I argue with love? How can I ask Ben to be in pain when there is something and someone who can take that pain away? Love is a gift. It's a gift. This is what I tell myself. I am happy for them, so happy for their happiness.

But I don't understand.

Lou stands up, holding out a hand to Ben, who takes it only slightly reluctantly. Well. She's not the only one who's changed. The band plays something festive, but it's not something I recognize. We sit and watch them dance, almost as if this is their wedding. The bride and groom take the floor. There are worse comparisons to be made. Less fitting. Then more people are standing up, more people are dancing. I feel, very strongly, the fact that Ahmir is behind me. I want to turn and look. I want to turn and look. I will turn and look.

I make to turn, but Mary stops me. She's wearing a dark purple sheath dress and looks lovely and collected. She points a perfectly manicured finger at the entrance staircase, and murmurs, "Look who decided to show up," before winking, _winking_, at me.

I turn to look, too. Elliot is standing at the bottom of the staircase, leaning casually against the banner, for all the world as if he has the right to be there. I have to fight the thunderous frown that appears on my forehead. There's no point. Yelling at him won't get me anywhere.

I stand up, turning to place my napkin on the table and push in my chair, and I look over my shoulder for a split second, the way I had been intending to before. Ahmir is looking at me, but not the way I had been hoping he would. He's not angry or judgmental, but the expressionlessness of his face is worse. He accepts that Elliot is here, and if Elliot is here after all, that must mean something. That could mean something.

There's not much you can do about suspicion. No matter how hard you try.

That does it. That _does_ it. There will be no more of this ludicrous misunderstanding, nor this pathetic sham of a friendship. I right myself, and take a breath.

I have work to do.


	22. Staircase Moment Part Two

_**T**__**HAT**__** I did always love,**_

_**I bring thee proof:**_

_**That till I loved**_

_**I did not love enough.**_

_**That I shall love alway,**_

_**I offer thee**_

_**That love is life,**_

_**And life hath immortality.**_

_**This, dost thou doubt, sweet?**_

_**Then have I**_

_**Nothing to show**_

_**But Calvary.**_

**-Emily Dickinson**

**

* * *

**

___**The fountains mingle with the river**__**  
**__**And the rivers with the ocean,**__**  
**__**The winds of Heaven mix forever**__**  
**__**With a sweet emotion;**__**  
**__**Nothing in the world is single;**__**  
**__**All things by a law divine**__**  
**__**In one spirit meet and mingle.**__**  
**__**Why not I with thine? -**___

_**See the mountains kiss high Heaven**__**  
**__**And the waves clasp one another;**__**  
**__**No sister-flower would be forgiven**__**  
**__**If it disdained its brother;**__**  
**__**And the sunlight clasps the earth**__**  
**__**And the moonbeams kiss the sea:**__**  
**__**What is all this sweet work worth**__**  
**__**If thou kiss not me?**_

**Percy Bysshe Shelley "Love's Philosophy"**

**

* * *

**

When Elliot was ten, his father taught him to play poker. It was a short lesson; his son had always been a quick study, something Mr Williams was proud of. It took only three hands before Elliot started winning. After that, it took only five more for Mr Williams to be wiped out completely. They weren't playing for money, but as Mr Williams handed over his pile of Pogs, he proclaimed to anyone who would listen how brilliant his son was. How people would be afraid to go up against him. Mr Williams ruffled his hair and called him "son," but he never asked Elliot to play poker with him again.

That is the only story Elliot has ever told me about his father. I'll never know if that's because it hurts him to talk about his family, or if it's because he wanted to downplay the connection between us. I'll also never know if it's the truth. There are a lot of things I'll never know.

I wouldn't consider myself to be a plotter or a schemer. I wouldn't consider myself to be dishonest. But I plan, and I lie, just like everybody else. I lie to myself most of all. I had thought seeing Elliot would be easy, now that I know the truth. The truth is fact; incontrovertible. I know the truth about Elliot. I'm pretty sure I know the truth about Elliot. I tell myself that nothing good has come out of my friendship with Elliot, but even as I repeat it to myself, I know it's a lie. The real truth, the worst truth, is that I'll never know what the truth is. I have only my convictions and the opinions of my good friend. Which is more than enough for me, it seems. How little we change.

The band is playing The Beatles by the time I reach Elliot, who is still leaning against the banister, watching me approach with neither joy nor apprehension. The smile on his face is charming, but I know not to trust it.

I find the anger rising again in my throat, and again I have to clamp it down. Not here. Not here.

"Annie!" he says once I get within hearing range. "I've been calling and calling. What's up?"

"What are you doing here?" I ask, and I am surprised that my voice is completely calm. Even friendly. My stomach is not.

He looks slightly taken aback, but he doesn't say anything. He waits for me to explain my question.

"You weren't invited."

He cocks a grin at me. "I know, I shouldn't gate crash, but I called your family's place looking for you, and Elizabeth told me about this party, and asked me to come along, so here I am."

"Oh, my family's here, too?" This time my attempt to be civil is not so well hidden. He frowns suddenly, concernedly.

"No, we're coming separately. What's up?" he asks again, sounding for all the world as if he were truly concerned.

Maybe he is.

He's slippery. He's always been slippery.

"Do you want to dance?" I hold out my hand to him, and hand at which we both stare vacantly for a few moments. I don't know where that came from. Neither does he. But he recovers well, as I knew he would, and he looks back up at me, a charming, heart-melting smile on his face, and offers me his arm, which I take.

No, in spite of everything, I can't dislike Elliot. I could hate him, I think, but I could never dislike him.

The dance floor is less open than it was before, the myriad of socially-mobile couples having drunk sufficient champagne not to give a damn if they have rhythm. Most of them do not. The Beatles song has changed to a smooth, soulful, jazzy number I don't recognize. It could well be an original, but I doubt it. I just don't listen to music enough. He picks the spot on the dance floor and turns me into his arms, where we spin on the spot, him leading as much as one leads in this kind of dancing. He holds me close, but not close enough to be creepy.

He understands me very well.

But I'm starting to understand him well, too.

"Tell me, Miss Elliot," he murmurs in my ear, turning me to avoid an ill-placed elbow from another couple, "why is it you haven't been taking my calls? Are you angry at me or something?" And again, that look of concern on his face.

But I have my convictions. I have my convictions.

I pull back just slightly to look at him. I stare a moment longer than he's comfortable with, but he barely shows it. "I know, Elliot." I say it quietly. Maybe at some other stage in my life, at some other distance from this situation, I would find it pitiable that the entire purpose of his life is about to be taken from him. Too bad for him I live in the here and now.

"Know what?" he asks, sounding terribly confused. I probably imagine the almost imperceptible freeze on his face. His smile is still there, that charming, golden-boy smile.

"Don't make this any more awkward than it needs to be, Elliot," I say, not looking away from his face. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Okay, I _wish_ I knew what you were talking about." He says. His eyebrows are pulled down in a frown. "Could you try not to be so cryptic?"

I take a deep breath. As long as I'm vague, he can feign confusion. If I tell him everything that I know, he'll call me crazy. Better not to get any further into either category than absolutely necessary.

"You know this town pretty well, right?" The change of topic seems to catch him off guard. He blinks once or twice then answers.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Have you heard of a man called General Wallace?"

"Yes, I—" and he stops. We both stop. He looks at me, and his face never changes, but I know he knows. He realizes, if he didn't know before, what it is exactly that I know. He understands that he's failed. He corrects this error as quickly as possible, bringing his smile back with beautiful radiance. But I've seen his face. And he knows it.

"Elliot," I say, and I don't say it unkindly. "I know."

He watches me for one more second, then on some simultaneous impulse we both take up the dance again, if half-heartedly. He doesn't look at me, and I don't look at him.

The song ends, and we separate, but only to stand face-to-face on the dance floor. The other couples dance on, unperturbed. He watches me, his face carefully blank. I watch him, too. I have no idea what my face betrayed. I never know what my face looks like.

I hold out my hand. "Can I borrow your cell-phone?" I'll never know why he does it, but he reaches into his pocket wordlessly, and takes out his phone, all shiny and new, and hands it to me. I look down at it, manipulating the buttons.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I don't look up. "I'm calling the police."

He chokes on his own laughter. "I'm sorry, what?"

I look up at him. "I'm giving you an out. Leave right now, or I call the police."

"On my phone."

"On your phone."

"I'm sorry," he crosses his arms, still smiling at me, rather smugly, in my opinion, "and what exactly will you tell them? That I felt you up on the dance floor? They're not going to go into a panic over that."

I breathe. It's important to breathe. "I'll tell them you were creating a disturbance. You're here uninvited, you're not one of the family. There are several very influential people here who would back up my story if I asked them to."

"Who? Your soccer friend?" He says it with such condescension that it takes me back momentarily. My surprise must register on my face because he masters himself. "Even if they _do_ come, I haven't done anything illegal."

I look him dead in the eyes, and despite myself, I do feel some pity for him. My voice, when I speak, is as firm as it is gentle. I'm a complicated woman. "We both live in the same world, Elliot. Look around you. Look at where we're standing. We're in the middle of the dance floor at a very large party full of very influential people. It doesn't take much to kick you out of the club. A rumor is enough. Or a scandal at a party. If you walk out of here in police custody, you walk out and you never come back. Maybe if you were really important, of really famous, you could come back. But that's not you. And I'm willing to bet that you have your entire future staked on being able to come back. And, it should also be said that I am close personal acquaintances with Margaret Dalrymple. Which _you _advised me to be only recently, didn't you? Although I guess you had other plans for that."

He's staring at me, stunned. He's never seen me before.

I wait. I'm courteous, and I give it a few minutes. It can take a minute to get acclimated to the fact that you've lost.

Then I press on. "But if you leave now, there won't be a whisper of a scandal. If you walk out of these doors and never show your face anywhere near me or my family again, then that's that. No more trouble from me, either." Because a bargain _has _to be struck. And because technically, he's not doing anything illegal. Immoral, yes. But the police can't arrest someone for being an asshole.

He takes it in, the new pieces of information adding weight to his shoulders. He rallies valiantly, but we both know how this is going to turn out. As in, not well.

For him, at least.

"I mean it Elliot. Leave now, or I _will_ put you in the middle of a scandal."

He looks at me, long and measured. I am sure I am a disappointment to him. "Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?" His face is almost without expression. He's regarding me very solemnly.

I feel the pity rise up again, but my voice is firm. "No. We wouldn't want that."

Finally, he nods his head. Hands in his pockets, he and I stroll together toward the staircase. With Ahmir, this habit is casual, almost unthinking. With Elliot, it is the physical equivalent of holding his tail between his legs. Elliot uses his hands to talk. He's very charismatic.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn and beckon a security guard from his sleepy post by the back wall. I don't really think Elliot will try to hurt me, but then the truth is that I don't know Elliot very well. If at all.

The elevator is gold-and-mahogany themed. The reflective doors show three very somber people, trying not to make eye contact with themselves. It's harder than it seems. Elliot's reflection is very pale. I feel some satisfaction being right, the vindication of the half-certain, but more than anything, I'm tired. I want to go home and curl up in bed and stay there forever.

Brave new world, with such people in it.

The guard trails behind us as we walk out the door. He's well-disciplined and surprisingly un-macho for a man built like Zeus's father. He's letting me call the shots, which I appreciate.

The front of the building is a long series of old stone steps. I step down them in time with Elliot, then stop three stairs from the bottom. I am king of the castle. He stops, too, and turns to look up at me. I can see the shock in his face, the budding recognition. I am serious. This is the end. And, it turns out, I am not the woman he thought I was, after all.

I take a deep breath, and let it out, not looking away from him. I mean what I say. I say what I mean.

"Goodbye, Elliot." Reaching out to shake his hand seems idiotic, and yet there my hand is, at the ready.

His mouth quirks up as he looks at my hand, but he puts his hand in mine to shake it, then unexpectedly leans in, close enough to murmur something, soft and low, his breath warm on my ear and my jawline.

"I love you, Anne Elliot." Before I can say anything, or think of anything to say, he turns and walks away.

I will never know if he was telling the truth. The possibility of it being true will keep me up at night sporadically for years to come.

I will see him again, just once. I won't be afraid.

I stand and watch him disappear, Chronos behind me, stand and watch him go until he's out of my sight, until his shadows disappear from the sidewalk. I stand and watch him go, and will him far, far away. I wait far longer than I have to before I turn back to the party, where life is continuing. I smile a thanks at the security guard, and he trots up the stairs to go back to his spot watching other people have a good time. I stand in the night, with a light mist falling from the sky, and a cool breeze rising from the east, and I feel so, so old.

How can I feel this old?

It is much, much later that I enter the hall again. The party seems to be winding down. My family has not, in fact, shown up. I would have known. I've been sitting on the steps for two hours.

Nadya and Adam are dancing, and Charlie is being twirled between Charles and Mary. Old couples, social climbers, men in suits, women in dresses, stand or sit and talk and drink and dance together.

I feel tired. I feel cruel. I feel naïve.

I look around the room helplessly, desperate to see someone I know and like. Lou and Hen are sitting in a corner, chairs facing each other, shoes off, their feet in the other's lap. A bottle of champagne is sitting on the table next to them. Perfect.

I grab a champagne flute from a nearby table, not taking the time to see if it's clean. I pull up a chair as well, and, completely uninvited, I approach their conversation.

Luckily, they don't mind.

"Anne!" Hen sits up, and it's clear right away she's tipsy. "Where have you _been_? You missed Mummy trying to do the Macarena!"

"How are you ladies?" I ask, smiling, sitting myself down. I prefer not to answer questions I don't want to answer.

"Sooooooooooo good," Lou giggles, taking a swig from the champagne bottle. Apparently, there's no need for the dirty flute after all. "It's been a great party, hasn't it?"

I nod, slipping off my shoes. "A great party."

"And you had fun, right?"she looks at me anxiously.

I smile at her. "I had _so_ much fun."

"I'm glad."

Hen catches my attention. "Anne. Did you know that your initials are A and E?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Strangely enough, I did."

She giggles. She's not that drunk. Neither one of them is. "Okay, I know, but that's like the channel, right? A&E. They had the Pride and Prejudice thing."

"Colin Firth," Lou adds. They both make a "mmmm" sound at the same time, and burst into giggles. I can't help laughing, too.

"And _my _initials are H and M," Hen says, indicating herself with the bottle of champagne. "Like the store."

"I'm L and M," Lou says doubtfully, more worried than perhaps she should be that we can't find an equivalent to her initials. Hen and I look at each other, stymied. Then my head clears.

"L.M. Montgomery. She wrote Anne of Green Gables."

"Full circle! God, I love that movie."

"Are you coming to brunch tomorrow?" Hen wants to know. "Everyone else is."

At my nod, she does a little dance in her seat. I sit back, not caring that my dress is slightly hiked up. The cold, dirty feeling that I had just minutes ago is washing away, and I'm starting to feel human. Better. They make me feel better.

They're saying something else.

"…No, but when you marry Ben, your initials will be LC, like the girl on the Hills," Hen is saying, in a very rational voice.

"That's only if I change my name. I'm not sure I want my marriage to be compared to the Hills."

"Ohh, look at you, Sadie Sadie," Hen teases her, poking her with her toe. Lou laughs, and I chuckle, resting my head against the back of the chair.

"But who else? Ben, obviously, is BC, like 'before Christ,' " Lou says, but Hen snorts.

"It's PC to say 'before common era,' now, you know" she says, handing me the bottle of champagne. I take a tiny sip, then cradle it in my arm for a minute. "Besides, are you really comparing the guy to Jesus? I mean, I know you love him and everything—"

"Okay, who else, who else?" I ask, wanting to avoid the obligatory squabble.

"Ummmm, Harry Harville? H and H?"

"Hilton House?" Lou suggests.

"Hampstead Heath?" is Hen's input.

"Poor Harry," I say, and we giggle again.

"How about Ahmir?" Lou says, craning her neck to see if he's around. I suddenly remember that I haven't seen him since I went to talk to Elliot. Three hours ago.

_No._

"Easy," says Hen, banging her hand against the table lightly. "Ahmir and Wentworth. A and W. Like the rootbeer. Done." She raises her arms in mock triumph, turning for an invisible crowd to clap at her.

_He must have seen me leave with Elliot_.

He promised not to make assumptions.

_He can't promise that, not really. Would you be able to?_

I stay with Hen and Lou for a few minutes more, but the tension is back in my body, and I am railing at myself for forgetting him. How can I forget him? How do you just forget the man you're in love with, barring any sudden, amnesia-inducing falls from things, etc, etc.

I stand up, making some excuse or other, and pick up my shoes, deciding I can search faster without them.

The French doors to the balcony are open, sending in a cool breeze from the air outside. As I step out onto the balcony, I find Harry leaning against the stone railing, looking down at the cityscape below. I hesitate in the doorway, puzzled by Harry's apparent dejection, but desperate to find Ahmir. He hangs his head, and I make a decision. I walk up quietly, but he still hears me. He turns to look at me as I join him in his leaning, watching cars move about nine stories below us.

"You alright?" he asks. I look at him in exhausted surprise, and nod, smiling slightly. I look down at his hand, which is cupped around something. He obligingly opens it to reveal a tiny golden locket on a delicate chain. When I look up at him, eyebrows raised, he smiles stiffly and opens it, revealing a small, beautifully-done sketch of a man's face.

"I bet you know who that is." Harry says quietly. His voice sounds bitter.

"It's Ben, isn't it?" I know it is. He knows I know.

"Yup. This was made a while ago. I'm giving it to Louisa." He looks down at the picture, turning it around in his hands. The silence stretches out.

"But?" I have to ask.

"But it wasn't made for her. This was done for my sister, Phoebe. It was supposed to be her engagement present."

I have nothing to say to that. I wait, watching him. He looks up at me, and shrugs, turning away to look out over the city. "I've been trying to write some kind of note to go with it all day, but everything I've done is unreadable. Cap's helping me out." He tilts his head back to indicate behind us, and I turn sharply, surprised, to see Ahmir sitting at a tiny circular table, a small stack of arty cards in front of him. He is largely unlit, which explains why I didn't see him before. I open my mouth, stupidly, because I have nothing to say, really. I close it again, but smile at him instead. He gives me only the briefest of glances before he goes back to writing something down on a piece of lined paper. Practice runs.

I am a coward.

"Poor Phoebe," Harry continues, sighing and shaking his head. I turn back to him, my head buzzing. "She would never have moved on this fast. Not in a million years."

I turn, too, facing the skyline, both hands on the stone wall. "No, I don't think she would have. That's not how it goes." I'm talking to Harry, but all my attention is behind me. I want to turn and look, but I don't.

"Not how what goes?" He's turned toward me, his face in a curious little frown.

I shrug again. "Women don't really forget men as easily as men forget women." I say it loud enough to be heard. I will be heard.

He quirks up his mouth. "Oh really? Are you speaking for all womankind here, or just the small, admirable percentage you represent?"

I make a face at him, more to cheer him up than because I feel like joking. He chuckles. He goes on. "I think you have it backwards. I've got a lot of proof. I can't remember a time when I picked up a book or watched a movie or listened to a _song_ that didn't go on and on about how women can't commit. And now you're probably going to say they're all written by men, right?" he smiles at me ruefully, leaning back, his hands gripping the stone for balance.

"Do you read a lot of books written by women?" I ask him lightly. He thinks a moment, and then smiles, which tells me all I need to know. I click my tongue in mock censure, and his smile stretches to a grin.

I tilt my head and look at him. "Do you think Nikki can't commit?"

"Whoa," he says, looking back at me in surprise. "Personal."

"We are talking about womankind," I say.

"Touche. And, yes, of course I think Nikki can commit. I'm just saying that maybe the _majority _of women, dot dot dot, yada yada yada." He gestures vaguely into the distance, and I smile at him. I turn out, too, and together we look out at the city in companionable silence.

Finally, he turns to me, and says "I don't think you understand men at all if you think that we get over things easily. Even Ben, I mean, he was _miserable_ for so long, you know? Maybe I'm being unfair, because he was a mess, even more than me, and she was my baby sister." He looks down at the railing, his thumb picking at tiny divets in the stone. I reach out compulsively and lay a hand on his arm. There is absolute silence between us. And behind us.

He clears his throat, throwing me a grateful smile. "If I could tell you—if I could just explain, or make you understand how much men can suffer when they're separated from the women they love. Separated from their families. Life on the road, all season, is hard." His voice dips, and he leans in closer to me, desperate to be understood. "I can't take the kids with me wherever I go, they have to stay home most times. Being apart from them, missing them, waiting to be with them again, it's harder than you know. Wishing to be home a day sooner, or even an hour sooner. To see their faces sooner. Whatever the stereotypes are, don't believe them. Real men don't forget."

"No, I don't think they do," I say, finding the words as I say them, and finding most of all that I believe them to be true. "I think guys are capable of great things. But," I say, turning to look at him, not daring to look to my left, not for one instant, "the only thing I'll say, the only point I'll give just to women, is that we love the longest, even when there's no hope. After death, or loss, we hold on. That's just how it is." I shrug, but I've never felt less casual in my life. My skin is crawling with desperation, but I don't know what to do with myself. I need to tell him. I need to explain. I need to know if he understood.

I open my mouth, but Harry has turned to Ahmir before I can say anything, "Any luck?"

Ahmir stands up, slipping a bright card into a sun-yellow envelope. "Not sure yet. We'll find out."

"Thanks, man."

Ahmir hands him the card, and looks at me briefly before he starts rearranging the cards on the table. "My pleasure."

Harry steps into the hall, and at last, at _last_ Ahmir and I are alone. I open my mouth again, and this time I get as far as "Ahmir—" before Adam comes out onto the balcony. He smiles at me, then turns to Ahmir.

"Are you ready to go? Nadya wants to head home, and we can give you and Harry a ride, if you like."

"Yeah, I'll be there in a second." But Adam waits for him, standing in the doorway, and Ahmir and I share only a moment's glance before he's through the door and on his way.

I'm not usually one for swearing, but I can think of a few choice words for this moment, and I say them. Loudly.

Yet again, I've failed. For some reason, it is important that he understand now, right away, what the truth is.

Maybe I'm just tired of waiting. But I _have _failed.

Tears out of nowhere rise up in my throat, and I breathe carefully, focusing on one particular building, and blinking over and over, lying to myself that as long as I focus and breathe, I'll be able to make it out of here with my dignity.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I turn, but it's Mary. I try not to be too disappointed, but I turn away before she can see my face. Maybe she wouldn't notice anyway. I have to give her more credit than that.

I am a coward.

Mary says something, and I make a noncommittal noise, which seems to be enough. Together, we stare out at the city, feel the wind as it whips up along the building. Mary's hair gets ruffled, but she makes no move to stop it. She really does look wonderful in that dress.

I can't make eye contact for long.

Then, more footsteps, and I hear a voice, loud and clear. "I'll be there in a second, I just forgot my coat," and I whip around, not caring how it looks. Ahmir is there, leaning down to get the coat that is indeed on the back of the chair. But he's looking at me, too, and before I can say anything, he slips his hand into his pocket and takes out a folded piece of notepaper, and puts it on the table. His eyes are dark and desperate, but before I can say anything, he's turned away and disappeared again.

It takes a moment for the situation to sink in, and I stare stupidly after him, until a puff of wind pushes the notepaper across the table, and I pounce to grab it before it gets blown away. Then, once it's in my hands, I start to understand it as a real thing. Alive.

My initials, AE, like the channel, are scratched messily on the front, and when I open it, I discover that it's only a few lines long. At first, I can't read it, but as I move closer to the doors, the light from the hall intensifies, and I can make out what he scrawled hastily on the paper.

_Anne-_

_Don't know what to say, but I have to say something. I can't sit here and listen without saying something. I've wanted to hear you say this for six years. I'm confused, half-agony, half-hope._

_You need to know. I never forgot you, not once since we left each other. You are my only plan. Being with you is my only dream. I've been weak, I've been mean spirited and cruel and idiotic, but I have never been unfaithful to you. I am more in love with you now than I was when you left me five and a half years ago. It's been impossible to forget you. Now I don't want to try. _

_Please tell me that I'm not too late. Please tell me that I'm the only one you feel this way for. You're the only woman in the world for me. A word, or even a look, will be enough._

_I have to go. I love you. _

_Ahmir_

I read the letter through twice, barely understanding, then a third time, faster, and my heart begins to pound. I have nowhere to put the letter, but I'll be damned if I put it down. This thing is never leaving my hands again.

"Anne? Are you okay?" Mary has noticed the change in my breathing, and God only knows what my face looks like. Of all the days for her to notice. Of all the moments.

I seem to have lost my ability to speak. I look up at her, and I can feel how wide my eyes are. I nod, jerkily.

"What's wrong?" she comes up to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I know she can feel my shaking. I summon my voice from somewhere in my sternum. "N-nothing."

Obviously, she's not fooled.

"You look terrible. Do you want to sit down?"

No, I don't want to sit down. I want to scream or cry or run around. The last thing I want to do is sit.

He only just left. I can still catch him.

I look at her again, unable to formulate a response, and then I take off, darting through the thinning crowd of party guests, people with whom I have chatted and schmoozed only just recently. Past Rochelle, who I didn't even know was here. I only register her face for a moment, but I don't have time to stop. Mary is calling my name, but I ignore it. My feet feel heavy and stupid, but I press on.

He only just left.

The elevator ride is slow, so slow, even slower than the one I took with Elliot. I'm jammed in between two couples, who are slightly drunk and very sleepy. The women are wrapped up in big coats. One man is wearing a scarf. The woman looking back at me from the polished doors is nothing but eyes, nothing but twitching, nervous energy.

I can still catch him.

I don't care how rude it is. When the doors open, I dart out, elbowing my way past the sleepy lady on my left. I leave any protests far behind as I sprint as fast as the heels will allow me to go, which is not fast enough, to the front doors, and then I'm outside and on my way down the stone steps, only slightly careful not to fall and break my head open.

I count every step. I don't know why.

On the sixteenth step, I look up, only to see Adam and Nadya's car take off from the curb. I raise my voice in a shout, some syllable, some word maybe, but the car is away from the curb and off into the night, the same direction Elliot went.

I haven't stopped running, though my shout has momentarily stopped everyone else on the steps and the sidewalk. Only hours ago, I was prepared to create a scandal with Elliot just this way. I wonder what they'll say about me.

I stop at the bottom, out of breath. Twenty-two steps.

The car is gone. Even running my fastest, he's gone. I look around me, helplessly, and half raise my hands only to let them fall to my sides again. Then my own breathlessness catches up to me, and I prop my hands on my hips, gasping for air, looking up at the sky. There are only a few starts out tonight. And they're not my stars.

"Anne?" The voice behind me is familiar, and I turn around to see Charles coming toward me. I'm still panting, and I'm not sure whether my face is red or pale or both. I must look a sight. "Are you alright?"

Again, I make a helpless gesture with my hands. That seems to be enough.

"Mary sent me to find you. She's worried."

I don't know why, but I start laughing. It's only a small giggle, barely perceptible, but he sees it. "She was," he says defensively. I nod curtly, looking away down the street.

"What's wrong?" he comes down to stand next to me, arms crossed. He's taken his jacket off, he must be cold. He must have followed me out here too fast to put it on.

I take a moment to breathe, and then turn to him. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Of course," his brow is wrinkled in a frown. He must be expecting something very bad.

"Can you make sure that Ahmir and Harry are coming to the brunch tomorrow?"

He frowns even deeper, now in confusion. "Of course they're coming, they're Ben's friends."

"No, I want to be sure," I insist, completely out of all rationality. "Can you make absolutely sure that they know where it is, and what time it is?"

"It's not exactly rocket science, Anne. When we say _brunch_, it's understood that—"

"No, it's _not_ understood!" I say, my voice rising, sounding for all the world like a baby Mary, "I am _asking_ you to do this for me Charles, okay?" I continue in a somewhat more reasonable voice. "Can you? Please?"

"Okay," he says, looking stunned at my outburst. I probably would be too, but I'm too high strung to be able to care. "But I think you need a ride home. Do you want me to take you?"

I shake my head furiously. "No, I'll walk."

He looks at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. "Walk? It's two in the morning, Anne. You don't even have your coat. You are not walking."

"I'll take the night bus."

"Don't be an idiot. Taking the night bus alone in that dress is asking for trouble. I'll take you, but I have to go tell Mary and the girls," and he turns to climb up the steps, only to stop, still within my peripheral vision.

"Ahmir!" he calls, and I whip around so quickly I get dizzy spots in front of my eyes. "Are you going home?"

Ahmir is standing still on step fifteen, his hands at his sides, watching me. Like I'm watching him.

He doesn't take his eyes off me when he answers Charles. "Not sure yet."

"If you're leaving, can you maybe take Anne home? I have to go in and make sure that everything's getting cleaned up, and then I have a business call in Tokyo that I have to take, and I need to be on time for that. It's that man that I was telling you about, Ahmir, the guy with the three piece-suits and the pocket squares, who wears them when he's playing golf. He's actually kind of a demon…" he trails off.

Ahmir doesn't notice for a few seconds more. "I'll take her home, Charles."

"Thanks. Thanks very much," he says, looking from me to Ahmir and back. He seems unsure of whether or not to leave us, but finally makes up his mind and trots up the stairs.

Ahmir comes down slowly. From my place on the bottom, I gaze up at him, terrified and alive with electric goosebumps. I try to smile at him, but my face isn't working. The only expression it knows how to do is the one it's doing right now.

He comes down, slowly, but finally he's standing next to me. He's so tall that even in heels I have to look up several inches to see his face.

I look down to where I still have his letter clutched in my hand. I try to flatten it out, but the creases are there. I would have to iron it. Stupidly, I consider that possibility.

Where the hell has my sanity gone?

I look up at him. He's watching me as if he's afraid I'm going to hit him across the face. I hold up the note, my hands shaking.

"Are you sure?"

His dark eyes blaze."Are you?"

I take a deep breath. "Absolutely." Then I smile. I can smile.

I'm still panting, still out of breath. But it would be wrong to blame the running.

He reaches out a hand, and I put mine in his. He guides me to step up one stair so that we are face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

He regards me seriously for a moment, then his face changes, and a grin pulls his mouth up at the corners until his face is split from ear to ear in a smile.

"So am I," he says, low, before moving ever so slightly closer to me. It seems like it takes an age, but our lips touch in a kiss. His arms come up around me, and even six years since the last time I've been in them, I know the weight of them, the strength of them. My arms come up, too, and the kiss deepens.

He's the one who breaks it off first, and I make some small sound of complaint because he grins at me. "We should get a cab," he says, watching me, a hesitance on his face. He's giving me an out. I bring him back into my arms, unwilling to let him go now that he's here.

"We really should," I agree, before I kiss him again. I feel his hands on my waist, caressing my lower back, pulling me closer to him.

I only want to be closer.

There might be people on the stairs, still trickling away from the party, but I don't know. Maybe tomorrow, over brunch, some friends will sit and gossip about the soccer star and the Elliot daughter making out. Will catalogue any known connections between us, and will draw their own conclusions.

I cup his face with my hands, in terrible danger of never caring what they think of me.

I'd like to make my own story, thank you.


	23. Begin Again

**_And because love battles  
not only in its burning agricultures  
but also in the mouth of men and women,  
I will finish off by taking the path away  
to those who between my chest and your fragrance  
want to interpose their obscure plant._**

About me, nothing worse  
they will tell you, my love,  
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies  
before I got to know you  
and I did not wait love but I was  
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?  
I am neither good nor bad but a man,  
and they will then associate the danger  
of my life, which you know  
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger  
is danger of love, of complete love  
for all life,  
for all lives,  
and if this love brings us  
the death and the prisons,  
I am sure that your big eyes,  
as when I kiss them,  
will then close with pride,  
into double pride, love,  
with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before  
to wear down the tour  
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,  
and they will say: "The one  
you love,  
is not a woman for you,  
Why do you love her? I think  
you could find one more beautiful,  
more serious, more deep,  
more other, you understand me, look how she's light,  
and what a head she has,  
and look at how she dresses,  
and etcetera and etcetera".

And I in these lines say:  
Like this I want you, love,  
love, Like this I love you,  
as you dress  
and how your hair lifts up  
and how your mouth smiles,  
light as the water  
of the spring upon the pure stones,  
Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me  
but only not to lack during every day of life.  
I don't know anything about light, from where  
it comes nor where it goes,  
I only want the light to light up,  
I do not ask to the night  
explanations,  
I wait for it and it envelops me,  
And so you, bread and light  
And shadow are.

You came to my life  
with what you were bringing,  
made  
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,  
and Like this I need you,  
Like this I love you,  
and to those who want to hear tomorrow  
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,  
and let them back off today because it is early  
for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them  
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf  
which will fall on the earth  
like if it had been made by our lips  
like a kiss which falls  
from our invincible heights  
to show the fire and the tenderness  
of a true love.******__**

**_-Pablo Neruda "And Because Love Battles"_**********

* * *

In my dream, I am awake. I am aware of the light coming in from the windows, and of the sound of the traffic, but my mind is still working the sleep from its corners, still dragging the dream through my slow realization of reality. Sensations stab through. Softness around my legs and shoulders. The rough rug against my foot. The smell of sweat and soap and something else. The sound of breathing, slowly. In and out, and then again. Skin on skin. Skin on skin.

My head rises and falls with his breath. My hand, splayed across his ribcage, expands and contracts with his lungs. We are rising and falling together, breathing together, being together. I breathe with him, determined not to break this moment, half praying he won't wake up, and wishing that he were already awake.

This is not what they call making love, I know, but this moment, this moment seems so very much more the definition of making love than anything else. This is more intimate, closer, less fiery, less intense, and yet somehow it is its very silence that overwhelms me. Skin on skin. We breathe together. We breathe together, skin on skin.

We didn't make it to my room last night. We didn't make it to the couch, either, though the blanket from my armchair is thrown over us. It seems unimaginable that this moment is not stolen from someone else's life, that his love for me is genuine, that it is not really his love for someone else. I want to believe that this is how I will always wake up, or, better, that this is how I'll always be. Just this, nothing else. If I get nothing else but this, I'll be happy. I promise.

He shifts in his sleep, just a little, as if he is aware that I'm here, even when he's unconscious. He doesn't talk in his sleep, and I find myself stupidly wishing that he did. I want to hear his voice, I want to hear him say my name, and tell me he loves me. He isn't dishonest. He wouldn't tell me he loves me and then take it back. And I know that he does love me. But I still want him to say it. A hundred times, over and over. Or just my name, over and over. Just that.

I would say that I've felt this way before, but I would be lying. I've loved, and strongly, but this fear, this new fear in me is something that I've never experienced before. I was never afraid of anything the first time, not with him near me. Now I know what it is to lose him and it stops my heart to think of the possibility of feeling that again. I love him too much to think of it, and too much to put it out of my mind. I lost him once, and it was my own fault. I can never be careless or blind again. I have to make sure that this feeling, _this feeling_ never goes away. That is the gift I give myself, and that is the task I set myself.

His skin is soft, but underneath is hard. How completely incongruous. How completely against everything he is. His chest rises and falls, and I rise and fall with him.

Where does it come from, this fear? Why is it only now, when I am so happy, that I'm aware of the risk? I stroke his sternum with my fingertips. Skin on skin.

"Anne," he murmurs, tightening his arm around me. I raise my head a little, looking at his face for the first time. His eyes are open, just barely, and he's smiling at me with them. I smile back at him, and lean my head forward to kiss the first part of him I can reach—his shoulder.

"Ahmir." With a sudden turn, he slips out from under me, so that he is above me, and my back is pressed against the floor. We stare at each other for a moment.

"Good morning," he says, his voice slightly bewildered as if he is bemused by his inability to find anything else to say.

I stroke his face. "Good morning."

He kisses me suddenly, presses against me and kisses me soundly. I respond, although I'm so overwhelmed it's all I can do to keep up. When we part, he looks at me bleary-eyed, and crooks his mouth sideways in a grin, "Just think, I can do that whenever I want." I grin back at him, making as if to kiss him only to lick him sloppily on the cheek.

"And I can do that whenever I want," I say triumphantly.

"Oh, God, could you actually never do that again?" he asks, sitting up to wipe his cheek with his hand, smiling ruefully at me.

"Oh, but I lick now."

"You lick now."

"Yeah. It's new."

"Well, it _has _been a long time." He looks at me as I look at him. "A long time."

My breath catches behind the lump in my throat, and I turn my head, suddenly and terribly ashamed of my tears. I've barely cried in such a long time, why now? Why start crying when I'm happier than ever? Emotions are so strange.

"Anne, Anne, don't cry." He says, pulling me close to him, his chest against my back, his arms around me. "I'm sorry. Don't feel like you have to apologize. Please."

"But _you_ just apologized." I retort, my voice only shaking a little.

"Well, I still have stuff to apologize _for_," he says, rubbing my hands in his. "You've already apologized. And I've made it my personal quest to punish you as much as possible. So you have nothing to feel guilty for." He rocks me back and forth gently, and we stay that way for some time. Fingers interlocked.

"Do you feel guilty?" I ask, staring down at our hands. He's watching them, too.

"Of course I do. I almost ruined everything. And Louisa could have been killed. You could have been killed. How could I not feel guilty?"

"You blame yourself for what happened to Louisa?"

"If I hadn't told her I wanted a stubborn woman, she wouldn't have jumped."

I turn to look at him, twisting around in his lap so I can see his face. "Don't flatter yourself, Ahmir. She would have jumped anyway." He looks at me quizzically, and I grin at him. "It's just who she was. Not that you being there wasn't good motivation for her, but then you'd have to apologize for your existence, and I don't want to hear any of that."

He regards me for a second, solemn and quiet. "I love you."

My heart aches. I can barely keep myself from crying again. "I love you." He pulls me into his arms again, my legs curled between his, which are raised, feet on the floor, knees bent. My ear is close to his chest, and when it's quiet I can hear his heart beating. Our hearts beat together.

"You could have died. You almost died." He says it softly, no more than a whisper. He rocks me gently from side to side, his hand in my hair, the memory of his fear in the tightness of his body. He speaks, as if echoing my thoughts: "I've never been more terrified in my life."

His fear is unbearable to me, and so I chuckle and say, "Never?" in knowing sort of way. He glances down at me, and I smile wickedly back at him.

"Well, almost never. Last night was…different?"

"Okay…?"

"Well, no one was drowning, so that's a difference right there. But it was almost worse, you know?"

"Yeah. I do. I love you."

His arms tighten around me. "I love you."

"I get to say that whenever I want."

"It's fun, isn't it?"

We have a lot to talk about. Despite what he says, I feel the need to apologize, to clear up every last misunderstanding, to dissect every minute, to make it clear that I am with him. I am his and he is mine. I want him to know it. And despite what I say, I know he feels the need to make sure that I know how much he loves me, that I understand each word he ever said to me.

At the same time, I don't want to talk. I'm tired of talking. I want to look, and look, and _look _and touch and revel in the fact that we are together again. Revel in the fact that he loves me and I love him. And in the fact that nothing else matters. He is mine, and I am his. We are breathing together. We are being together. We are together.

"Just tell me this," he says quietly, in my ear, as his fingertips trace my collarbone, just touching, just ever so slightly. "If I had come back sooner…if we'd met again sooner, say two years after we broke up, would you have wanted me then? Would you have come back to me, if I had come back to you?"

"Of course. Of course I would have."

"Of course," he's silent for a long time. "I almost came back, you know. I was _this_ close to coming back and, I don't know, doing whatever it took to convince you to be with me."

My breath catches. "Why didn't you?" I draw concentric circles on his knee.

"Because I'm stupid, that's why. And because I wanted to make you suffer. And because I loved you too much to risk it. But I should have risked it. I could have saved us both years. Anne," he murmurs, only just audibly.

"Yes?" I whisper back.

"Stay with me."

There's no response for that, besides turning around and kissing him. Wrapping my arms around him, and pulling him closer, closer, so that he can see how impossible it is that I would ever leave him. How inseparable we are now, now at last, the way it should always have been.

Because even through all the fear, all the self-doubt, the loathing of the past, what shines the brightest is our triumph. We are here, we are together. I can't keep the smile off of my face, can't keep joy from lighting up every part of me. It's unending, this happiness, it's impossible to contain. I don't even try. I love this man, and this man loves me, and that victory leaves no room in my lungs for air, no space in my head for thought, no time for my heart to beat. I will wake up every day next to him, I will hear his voice every day, and each day will be happier and better than the one before it. I know who I am, and he knows who he is, and here we are. I want to sing, I want to dance, I want to walk down the street hand-in-hand for all the world to notice us and understand what we are. I am _so_ happy. Can a person be this happy?

Soon, too soon, we get up. Our nakedness under the blanket suddenly becomes awkward, and I find some clothes for us to throw on. Me his shirt, him his pants. He makes scrambled eggs and toast, and I make coffee, and we sit across the tiny table from each other, feet touching, hands touching, and we don't say a word. There's so much to say. There's nothing to say.

It's morning. This is where the day begins.

**The End**

**

* * *

**

*Next chapter will be an author's note.


	24. Author's Note

Author's Note:

So there we have it. It probably shouldn't have taken me this long to finish this story; sorry again for the delays. I'd also like to thank (again) those who have stuck with me from the beginning, if there are any of you left. It's been a really great exercise and it's a story I really love and always will.

I'm also super tired, though. Anne has probably been the most exhausting character to write, mostly because she's so introspective all the time. Lizzy was tiring, too, but she was so madcap that I could really write whatever the hell I wanted and it would make sense in context of her character. That doesn't necessarily mean I'll be taking a break from writing, at least not a long one, but I think a few weeks of movies marathons and stupid books should do it.

I've had a few requests to write something else on fanfiction, and I have to be honest and say that I had actually planned this story to be my last one on the site before I started writing original projects on my own. But as I got close to the end of this story, I started to realize that I might need one more practice run before I try to go pro.

This is where you come in. This is also a shameless self-promotional plug, so ignore it if you want.

The problem is that I'm not sure what I want to write. There are a few other Jane Austen stories I could adapt, but I don't want to write myself into a corner.

So I've decided to take audience suggestions. There are a few guidelines. If you have an idea for what you want to see on fanfiction from me, tell me either through personal message (if you're signed in) or review. The idea can be general ("Lord of the Rings") or specific ("Aragorn/Arwen, Lord of the Rings") or SUPER specific ("Aragorn/Arwen, Lord of the Rings prequel, first person, Arwen's POV"). The suggestion, whatever form it takes, MUST BE, absolutely MUST BE in an area that you feel has been neglected. Lily/James during Hogwarts, for instance, would not work, because of the large representation of the fanbase on the website. I'm in no way hating on Lily/James fiction, as I enjoy it, but I prefer to work in small categories. It's a personal thing.

Pick something you like but don't feel has been well done on the site up until this point. I am most familiar with TV, film, and books, and I write het fiction the best, although doesn't mean I wouldn't be willing to give other types of relationships a try in fiction form. I also really like doing complete rewrites of things, as you may have noticed.

Essentially this boils down to a challenge. I will choose the suggestion that strikes my fancy within a month of this post, and will update my profile to announce what I've chosen.

And again, if this strikes you as self-aggrandizing, please feel free to ignore me.

Thank you all for reading this story. All your feedback, all of your criticism, has been so helpful to me. I'm glad that you liked Anne as much as I did. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask me.

Most sincerely yours,

Dinah


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